


superimpose

by howellesterfics



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Photographer Phil Lester, Smut, phil's cat tuna is the only valid character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:56:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howellesterfics/pseuds/howellesterfics
Summary: Being in his early thirties, Phil thinks he should have more to show than a minimum wage job and the amateur photography skills that rarely earn him any pay. Suddenly he's given the opportunity to display his pieces in a gallery down the street. He ultimately leaves with more than just a new sense of pride in his work when he gets caught up with the snarky and neurotic gallery assistant, Dan.





	1. Chapter 1

The gallery doors are heavy, leaving Phil embarrassed as he struggles to push them open in the clear view of all the people strolling down London’s busy streets. He leans most of his body weight against the sturdy wood, though, and it swings open. The bright show lights within give his eyes some trouble as they adjust after the dreary, grey weather outside. But once they do adjust, he sees the lights bounce off the walls and cast interesting shadows in the spacious room. It’s pleasing to the eye, especially a well-trained eye that’s used to looking for those things from behind a camera. 

He takes a few hesitant steps into the gallery and sees the light wooden floors and the different wall panels that are in the middle of the room, where larger works are being presented. There are two particularly eye-catching abstract prints that Phil is immediately drawn to. He doesn’t feel he has the time to ogle for long, though, as he’s here for a reason. A reason that has given him sweaty palms and a tight grip on his canvas bag. 

There are a few other people looking around, but they seem to be patrons and not any sort of management. Phil walks up to the vacant desk near the entrance and sets his bag down – it’s heavy enough that it’s left red imprints on his fingers. He gently allows it to rest against the wall, careful not to jostle the contents of it around much. There’s some foam insulating the pieces, but any chance of scratching his precious prints is too drastic to even think about. 

Phil slides his phone out of his back pocket almost subconsciously to check the lock screen. It’s fifteen past three and he has a text from his brother reading _‘knock ‘em out!’_

He smiles and repockets it, some of his pesky nerves eased. They pick up again almost immediately when he glances up to see a flustered looking man pacing towards him. 

“I’m so sorry, really. I had to take care of something in the storage room. You’re Philip, right? The photography guy?” 

“Phil, yeah,” Phil responds automatically. 

His brain still hasn’t caught up to the sudden interaction, however, and he finds himself wordlessly staring at the man in front of him. He’s dressed head to toe in black, in a fuzzy sweater and velvet Chelsea boots. His hair is a mass of curls and he’s flushed pink in the face. 

“Phil, my apologies. I’m Dan, Leah’s assistant. She’s out for lunch but we can go over some things until she gets back.” 

Dan sits down behind the desk and pulls a folder from one of the drawers, picking out papers from it. He slides the stack closer to Phil and starts flipping through the pages, explaining the different forms as he goes. They’re for the expected agreements, like the lack of art insurance and the costs of renting space in the next exhibit. Phil is listening intently to the explanation, as this is something he’s been working towards for years (and something he still can’t quite believe is happening) - but his brain is begging to be distracted by Dan’s hands. They’re long and slightly tanned and move smoothly as he goes through the paperwork. His nails are cut short and messily painted with silver glitter. The specks are hit by the light when he points out where Phil should sign and initial. 

He gives Phil a copy of the exhibit space rules and then puts the signed papers into a manila folder already of the desk. The front of it has _Philip Lester_ scrawled on the front in messy sharpie writing. Phil can’t stop smiling like he’s daft at the sight of it; this could well and truly be a break for him. He’s going to have his photographs hanging on these walls, in a part of the city that gets a lot of foot traffic. He expected more intimidation or interrogation when he got here. He expected to need to defend his work and prove that it’s worthy. That doesn’t seem to be the case. 

“Alright, Phil, shall we check out your space?” Dan asks. 

He’s smiling too, but it’s much more muted. Phil follows him over to a wall further back in the room. It has a set of three landscape oil paintings on it right now, framed and aligned expertly. 

“Do you know how wide the wall is?” Phil asks. He’s trying to envision just how many photos he can squeeze in without overcrowding. 

“It’s around one hundred eighty centimeters. You’ll want to remember to account for your frame size, too.” 

“Oh, I don’t do frames.” 

“No?” 

Dan quirks up his mouth and reaches forward, ever so slightly tilting the painting in the middle of the other two. It was such a minuscule tilt that Phil would have never recognized the crookedness before, but he supposes working in a gallery would give you that kind of precision. 

“Nope. I do metal prints.” 

Dan nods, slowly drawing his hand away from the landscape. 

“Ah. Can I see? Did you bring any?” He asks. 

“Yeah, they’re back at the desk,” Phil realizes out loud. 

He’s truly too dumb for his own good sometimes. Dan seems to think the same thing, because he makes a beeline around the corner and makes sure the bag is still there. When they see it is, Dan laughs at him just a little. 

“Mate, you’ve got to have these or else you’ll just have paid for a blank wall.” 

“Are you implying that you get a lot of art thieves?” 

“No, but you just might bring them in.” 

“Oi.” 

Phil picks up his bag and cautiously pulls out one of the metal prints. His focus is on street photography, and this picture always makes him smile. There’s two women waiting at a crosswalk and sharing an umbrella. Their hands are overlapping on the umbrella’s handle and they’re grinning widely at each other, as if in mid-laugh. He hands it to Dan and watches his face for signs of reaction. What he gets is a tilted head and the appearance of a deep dimple, and it makes his heart swell. He tries to convince himself that the feeling in his chest is just pride in his work. It has nothing to do with the way Dan’s cheeks dent in like two tiny craters on the surface of the moon. 

“This is beautiful. Were they together?” 

Phil remembers the way the women had chatted so familiarly with each other, never noticing him or his camera until he approached them afterwards and made sure it was alright for him to keep it. That’s not the protocol for most street photographers, but it helps him feel better about the ethics of it all. But were they a couple? He isn’t sure. 

“I don’t know. They were close, regardless.” 

Dan hands back the print, his fingers brushing against Phil’s as he does. It gives Phil a small thrill that he tries to disregard. He’s here for professional, career-boosting reasons and he isn’t going to be the weird guy that hits on the gallery assistant. He’s just managed to put the photograph back into his bag when the door opens behind him. It sends a rush of cool air against his back and makes him bristle, even through his thick navy coat. Dan’s eyes flicker up to the new arrival and he grins. 

“Leah, finally. This man needs to pay you. I got everything else taken care of.” 

Phil stands up maybe too abruptly, not wanting to be rude to the owner. He turns to face Leah, a woman who seems to be in her early thirties, and reaches out for a handshake. She accepts it with a reproachful stare, but it isn’t unkind – just curious. 

“Philip, correct?” 

Before he can say anything, Dan’s voice pipes up from the desk. 

“It’s Phil, actually.” 

“Thank you, Daniel, but I think he can answer himself.” 

“God, you’re such a mum. Thanks for busting out the Daniel card on me.” 

Leah ignores him completely. She must not be too strict or horrid, then, if she lets her assistant talk that way. She pats Phil’s shoulder blade and gestures to his canvas bag. 

“C’mon, then, let’s sort you out in my office. There’s less distractions there.” 

Phil obediently shoulders the bag, but when he meets Dan’s eyes, they share a quick playful look. Dan ends up snorting, unable to keep it under wraps. 

“That’s an innuendo and a half, Lee.” 

“Daniel, I believe you have a job to be doing. Sorry about him, he’s been itching to get fired.” 

Phil half expects Dan to straighten up then and there, as it’s usually not a good sign if your boss is joking about sacking you. This whole interaction has felt unconventional, though, so maybe their friendship is just like that. It’s entertaining either way. 

“Aw, you love me too much for that,” Dan says. 

Phil chuckles at him; the cheekiness is somehow making him more drawn to the guy. 

Eventually, Phil and Leah make it back to her office to talk. He lays out his prints on her desk and she doesn’t absolutely hate them, which is good enough for Phil. He’s getting his work out into the world instead of it being shoved into stacks in his flat or hung up in dingy cafés where no one would ever think about buying them. The rental price makes his wallet a lot more spacious afterwards, but now he can come back next week and start putting together his exhibit. When he leaves there’s a spring in his step; he’s ready for whatever the universe decides to throw at him now. Dan is nowhere to be seen as he walks out of the much too heavy doors, but the memory of his fluffy hair and kind eyes is enough to make Phil excited about returning. 

-

Phil’s flat has never really felt like home. His home is up in the North with made-from-scratch sweets and a bedroom with too many posters on the wall. Don’t get him wrong, though. The space is nice. It’s good to have a whole living space that he doesn’t have to share with anyone besides his cat. It’s just lonely sometimes. The walls are too bare, and the silence can make him feel a bit batty after a while. It’s better when he has busy days – days spent out on the streets, camera in hand. There are also days he dedicates to his second job down at the supermarket, because being a freelance photographer isn’t going to pay London rent. 

Even with the supermarket he still finds himself worried over bills from time to time, but he’s lucky enough to have parents that fuss over him and send him probably too much money each month. They’re good people. Sometimes he’s afraid that he’s not doing enough for how much they dote over him. He usually tries not to dwell on that. 

Today, though, it’s pouring rain and he’s not scheduled to work, so he can dwell all he likes. He’s leaned against his kitchen island, watching Tuna eat her gross wet cat food off a plate on the floor. She’s never been good at being a pet and instead prefers being an absolute abomination. Phil got her when she was the tiniest kitten and well-behaved, but now at one and a half years old she waltzes around the flat like it’s her own. She won’t eat out of a cat bowl and she refuses to sleep anywhere except a very specific spot in the lounge floor. Phil’s tripped over her so many times that he’s surprised they’re both still alive. 

“Tuna, I know you don’t care but I got the gallery space. I go back in a few days to set everything up and then I’ll have one more thing to put on my CV. Thrilling, huh?” 

Tuna keeps eating, only acknowledging his presence in the form of an ear twitch. He snorts at her lack of response. 

“Okay then. We’ll see who gets any of my stir-fry for dinner. Goblin.” 

That evening as he’s cooking, he feels a familiar soft presence weaving around his ankles, a perky tail brushing against his leg. The loud meows sound off while he dashes seasoning into the mix. He should have more will-power, but he ends up dropping pieces of meat for her as he eats at the counter. Tuna ends up on the couch next to him afterwards, while he’s playing the latest Zelda game. She minds her business for the most part but it’s comforting knowing he’s not completely alone. That’s until he’s in the middle of something important and she’s suddenly wanting to play, biting at his arm like the little demon she is. 

-

Wednesday comes faster than he thought it would. The week is a blur of editing photos on his computer, standing behind a cash register, and fretting about the exhibit. That morning he’s packing his things into his bag, double and triple checking that he has things to hang the photos with just in case, as he forgot to ask if anything would be provided for him. 

He’s picked out five of his best pictures that looked similar enough in theme. They all focus on London but three have people as the subjects and the other two are more centered on looking at the architecture in a different perspective than you might normally. He’s proud of all of them and thinks that they’ll look nice on the gallery walls. He tried to line them up in his bedroom, but it didn’t have the same affect as the show lights and the minimal setup. He’s hoping he’ll figure out a good order for them when he gets there. 

Phil walks down London’s pavement without stopping to observe anything like he normally would. His arms are aching from the weight of the bag by the time he gets to the right street and he curses his decision to have metal prints for everything. It does look nice, but it’s a pain to transport. When he gets to the gallery, he stops in front of the door and sets his things down. The lights are on inside but the sign on the window is turned to say ‘closed.’ He gives the door a try anyways and it opens, after another embarrassing moment of having noodle arms. He grabs his bag and slips inside, letting it shut behind him. 

The first person he sees is Leah, who is clearly distressed about something. She sees Phil come in, though, and turns her attention to him. Her tight-lipped smile is difficult to reciprocate when there seems to be some tension in the room. Phil wants to ask if he’s for sure here at the right time, but there are other artists in the gallery setting things up already. They all look like they belong here, like they’re used to displaying their work. 

“You, hello, come on in. You’ve got an easy installation,” Leah says. 

She puts a hand on his upper back to get him moving away from the door. Once they’re over in his more secluded area towards the back she rolls her eyes at him. 

“Some of these people are so particular, I’m losing my mind working with them. I thought about pairing Dan up with a few but it’d be torture to the guy.” 

Phil can’t help but to perk up a bit at the mention of Dan, pleased to hear that he’s around. He isn’t sure why, besides the fact that Dan made him laugh a handful of times last week. And the fact that he’s a little bit pretty. That’s irrelevant, though. 

“Torture?” 

“Yeah, he’s kind of particular himself.” 

Phil isn’t sure what to add to that, so he forces out a small laugh and starts unpacking his prints. He takes a seat and sets them out on the floor in front of him, still unsure of the order he should put them in. 

“It’s Phil, right?” Leah asks. 

She tucks some of her short, blonde hair behind her ear. Phil notices that her ear is covered with piercings, from the bottom of her lobe all the way up to the curve at the top. He wonders if it ever feels heavy. 

“That’s me,” he says. 

“Would you consider yourself pretty easy to work with? Not a diva or anything?” 

This gets an actual laugh from Phil, and he shakes his head quickly. 

“No, no. Too afraid of confrontation to be a diva.” 

“Awesome. I’m going to tell Dan he’s on Phil duty, then. He’s got nothing else to do and I’m not paying him to be a lazy tyke.” 

Before Phil can respond Leah is off, her boot heels clacking against the wooden floor. He bites back a grin and starts messing around with the order. They’re all black and white so coloring isn’t a problem, only subject matter. He decides that he could do a pattern of people and then architecture, but should there be a story? Should people need a reason to take a second look at the layout? Maybe he’s overthinking things. 

After some deliberation, he gets an order that he’s okay with. He’s got the umbrella girls, a photo of The Gherkin skyscraper, two strangers on a bench that had similar hats, the Tower Bridge reflected against the water at dawn, and a mum and daughter looking into a bridal shop. There isn’t a whole lot of story to be told, but that’s okay for now. 

“Hey, how are we hanging these, buddy?” Says a voice from above him. 

Phil looks up at Dan, guiding his facial features into nonchalance. 

“I’ve got wooden panels on the back, so a couple of nails should do it,” he answers quietly. 

Dan isn’t in all black again; he has a white button-up with little moths on it, and it’s buttoned all the way up to his neck. From Phil’s position on the floor he can see how the shirt hugs his tummy a little and for some reason that makes him flush. 

“Cool, I’ll be right back.” 

Dan is gone for all of thirty seconds before he comes back with a wheeled cart in tow, an assortment of nails and hammers and levels on top. He reaches out his hands and Phil realizes Dan wants to help pull him off the floor, so he cautiously meets him halfway and grabs on. Dan hoists him up onto his feet and steadies him, and all Phil can do is marvel at how effortless it had been, as if he hadn’t struggled at all with pulling a grown man up from the floor. 

He also marvels at how warm Dan’s hands had been against his, warm and soft and large enough to cover his own. 

“Thanks.”


	2. Chapter 2

Working in the gallery, Dan’s seen a lot of artists in his time. He’s dealt with entitled snobs who feel that they’re too good for this little studio but get rejected from higher up ones. He’s worked with know-it-alls and eccentrics and pretentious young adults. Every now and then there are genuinely great people that rent out space, ones that don’t ask for much and are polite and well-rounded. Dan thinks Phil falls into the good category. 

He hasn’t spent a lot of time with the man, but there’s something soft in the way he holds himself. Even now, as he’s hammering the last nail into the wall, his body doesn’t operate in an overly manly, athletic way. Dan isn’t sure if he’s ever seen someone be so gentle with a literal hammer. It taps against the head of the nail and barely nudges it in, little by little. When Phil is finished, he takes a few steps back, probably to check the symmetry of the nails. Of course, Dan would never have let him do it crookedly. He triple-checked each one’s height and spacing before he gave Phil free reign over the tools. 

Now that it’s done, they begin placing the prints on the wall in the order Phil had them in. That part only takes a minute, but when they’re finished it looks fantastic to Dan. He loves the simplicity of the pieces and their composition, but he’s had one question on his mind all morning. 

“Bit touristy, isn’t it?” He asks. 

Phil tears his critical eye away from the pictures and towards Dan. He doesn’t look offended, just a bit surprised. 

“Maybe. I don’t think that has to be a bad thing, though.” 

“Right, no, of course not,” Dan agrees. 

His face goes a bit hot in embarrassment, but he doesn’t let them linger on it for long. 

“Hey. I’ve got a twenty-minute break and I’d love to not help anyone else. You wanna hang out in the storage room? I’ve got a bag of crisps with your name on it.” 

There’s a beat of silence, one that makes Dan feel dumb – for the second time in a row. Why did he decide to invite this fit guy to their shitty closet of a storage room? He should have really called in sick today and let Leah kill him for it later. He chances a look at Phil, who looks torn. Or uneasy. Or just awkward. Either way, Dan wants to dash off and forget this ever happened. 

“I, um, I guess that’s okay. Are you sure I’d be allowed back there?” He eventually asks. 

“Plenty sure. Lee’s up to her neck in people to deal with, so she’s probably hiding in her office. She won’t look for us.” 

As they walk back to the storage room, Phil seems to loosen up some. His shoulders slacken and he’s not frowning anymore. Dan makes sure to speed up his steps when they’re near the door, because he isn’t ready to explain his weird habits to a practical stranger. He discreetly taps the doorknob three times, counting it off in his head, before opening it up. He reaches in and turns the light on, then off, then on again. Once again, the _on off on_ is mentally counted to three. He slips into the room so that he doesn’t have to turn around and see if it was noticed. He hears Phil follow him in and pull out one of the metal folding chairs. 

“Aren’t you ever afraid that Leah’s going to sack you?” Phil asks as he takes a seat. 

Dan laughs and hoists himself up to sit on the table. His lunch bag is already on it, containing his rather sad-looking meal for the day. He reaches into it and throws his crisps at Phil, who flails to catch them on time. 

“Not really. She likes having me around, I think. Even when I’m being kind of a dickhead.” 

Phil sort of hums in agreement. 

“You two are close, then?” 

“Yeah. I applied here the day I dropped out of uni and she took me in like a fuckin’ stray or something. She’s good like that.” 

“Oh. Are you two… you know?” Phil wiggles his shoulders a bit, giving a little suggestive nudge of his head. 

Dan almost snorts at the question, but he tries to hold it back. 

“God, no, mate. She’s like my mum. Why, you into her or something?” 

He shouldn’t be afraid to ask that. It’s fine if Phil is into Leah. It’d never go anywhere of course, because Lee is almost as gay as Dan, but the thought of Phil thinking she’s fit makes him feel weird. Wrong-weird. As nonsensical as it would sound, almost sick to his stomach even. He’s talked to this guy for maybe an hour and a half at most. Where the fuck is that feeling coming from? 

Phil opens the crisps bag and pops one in his mouth, and Dan shifts a little in his seat. 

“No. I’m not into her. I just thought, because of the way you two talk to each other…” 

“Ha, well. Yeah, that’s just how we are. I’m sure she’d rather die than touch a penis.” 

Phil sputters out a laugh at that, his eyebrows shooting up a bit on his pale forehead. Dan feels a bit bad for casually outing his boss, but she’s very open about it herself. It’s worth the potential awkwardness to see this guy grin like that, his eyes going all cute and squinty. He’s sweet. 

Phil opens the crisps and tosses one into his mouth, going quiet as he chews. Dan looks around the room, wanting desperately to fill the silence with something worthwhile. He’s afraid that he seems like a proper weirdo now that they’re in this tiny room and he’s pretty much forced Phil to snack on some crisps and waste his valuable time talking to some uninteresting nerd. 

“So, what were you studying in uni?” He asks through a mouthful. 

Dan puts on an over-exaggerated groan, his previous worries lessening. His therapist really wouldn’t like where that mindset was headed. 

“Law. Not for me at all – too many snobby kids following in their father’s footsteps and being self-righteous about it. Did you go?” 

Phil nods, a sympathetic smile on his face. 

“Went to York. I did some English stuff, some video editing stuff. Then I did what all people with a degree do and got a minimum wage job as a cashier.” 

He doesn’t seem too upset about it, and it makes Dan wonder if he should really be so miffed about dropping out. Maybe he’d be in this gallery regardless of whether he kept pursuing school. He’s got so many ‘what-ifs’ in the back of his head that are probably pointless to keep around. He gives Phil a half-hearted shrug. 

“But here you are, now. Taking pictures and shit. That seems fun.” 

“It is. I like to watch people.” 

Before Dan can make a tasteless joke about voyeurism, Phil shoots him a wide-eyed stare. 

“Not in a creepy way! I just attract strange people. It happens all the time. Might as well get a sneaky picture or two, just to confuse future robot historians.” 

Dan laughs, wondering what the hell this guy is on about. The thought of ‘robot historians’ just naturally left his mouth like it wasn’t an odd but endearing thing to say. 

“I think you might be the strange people, Phil Lester.” 

“Your mum is the strange people, Dan… McDanielson.” 

“It’s Howell, actually, but good guess.” 

A loud knock on the door startles them both, and then Leah opens it and peers inside. 

“Oh, Phil, there you are. Thought you had ran off. Anyways, boys, snogging session is over. Everyone is finishing up and I need Dan to help me clean up their bloody mess. Five minutes and I better see you out here, mister.” 

The door shuts again and Dan’s shoulders slump, as he quickly tries to morph his embarrassment into nonchalance. It’s such a childish thing to get flustered by a teasing comment about someone he’s into, but it does get to him for some reason. He refuses to look up and meet Phil’s eyes in case he’s terribly put off by the snogging joke. He hears Phil mess with the crisps bag, the crinkling noise loud in the room. It’s almost comical how quiet they’ve gone. After another agonizing fifteen seconds, Dan takes a risk and looks at Phil. It might be Dan’s imagination, but he looks the least bit pink in the face. Not disgusted, then, just awkward. He can work with that. 

“I really don’t get paid enough to put up with her.” 

“It could always be worse. My boss almost sent me home once because I had on corgi socks.” 

“Fuck off, no way.” 

“Yes way. He really doesn’t like me.” 

Dan frowns and hops off his seat on the table. It wobbles at the loss of his weight and he puts a hand down to steady it. Everything in the storage room seems to be cheap and old and dusty. It’s always been a little dank cave of solace for him, though. 

“I don’t see why. You’re properly nice and shit.” 

Phil stands up as well, gathering his canvas bag and sneakily leaving the half-eaten crisps on the table. Dan notices, of course, but it only makes him grin. They’re two of the same, awkward and lanky and working dead-end jobs. He’s sad that he’s expected to go back to reality now. 

“You’re nice too. Which is why I’m going to let you get back to your job, so you won’t be fired when I come back for the reception. You’ll be at the reception, right?” 

Dan nods. Something about Phil potentially wanting to see him again makes his head spin. 

“Always am.” 

He opens the door wide enough for Phil to leave first, feeling his breath catch when Phil’s arm brushes against his shoulder. This is unfortunate, is what he thinks. He’s got no room for this new infatuation. 

“I’ll see you, Phil. Stay warm, it’s disgustingly cold out.” 

“Will do,” Phil says, the back of his head getting farther and farther away until he reaches the big main doors. 

Dan watches him until he’s gone past the view of the windows, sighing quietly as his body untenses. He flips the light switch; one, two three, and then he leaves the storage room.  
Leah’s over in the corner picking up stray nails off the floor. He joins her silently and doesn’t mention the snogging comment. 

When Dan gets home, he immediately recognizes the loud noises coming from the lounge. It’s not a good day for this amount of chaos, but he only pays for half of the rent. He can’t exactly make rules on when visitors are allowed. Nevertheless, he kicks his shoes off and rummages around in the kitchen for a bit, finding some leftover takeout to have. His lunch at work didn’t go to plan and he can’t ignore how ravenous he is now. Once he’s done eating, he tries to sneak past the lounge as if he’s in some sort of video game stealth mode, but of course it doesn’t work. 

Andi turns around as soon as he’s stepped over the threshold and throws up a hand in greeting. They’re playing Halo 3 with their friend (who Dan has forgotten the name of) and being way too invested in it. Dan can’t complain much because he also tends to yell obnoxious nonsense while playing video games, but Andi plus their friend were starting to give him a bit of anxiety with all the excitement. 

“Dan, you want in on this?” They ask, but they’ve already gone back to staring at the screen. 

“Not tonight, sorry. I’ve got a bit of a migraine,” he lies. 

Andi nods and nudges their friend discreetly - not discreetly enough, though, as Dan sees it clear as day. It makes his mouth twitch up into an almost-smile, glad that they would at least be considerate about the noise tonight. 

“Oops. We’ll tone it down, then. Feel better.” 

“Thanks,” Dan murmurs. 

He slips past the sofa and walks quickly down the hall to the safety of his bedroom. Almost absentmindedly, he does his taps on the door knob and the flips of the light switch. It’s second nature at this point, engrained into his days like breathing or blinking. Most of his rituals don’t even bother him that much. It’s mainly the nighttime ones that give him trouble. When it’s evening and the sun is setting, his brain starts too work against him until suddenly he can’t think straight unless he goes through each room of the flat and does what he needs to do. Some nights he lies in bed, fingers twitching with the rampant thoughts buzzing around his skull – the stove is on, something is plugged in halfway, the door is unlocked, he left something too close to the radiator and no, it doesn’t matter if it hasn’t been on all day. 

It’s not night yet, though, and he can keep himself in check until Andi’s friend leaves. Andi doesn’t mind his rituals at all; they once said that it’s not a horrible thing, knowing that stoves and locks will always be triple checked. Dan has never explicitly hidden the symptoms of his OCD, but he felt the need to warn any potential flat mates when he decided he needed to split the rent. It can be disruptive, especially when it’s three in the morning and he jumps out of bed and paces down the hall to be absolutely sure that the burner knob isn’t tilted just a little to the left of ‘off.’ Even if it were, though, he wouldn’t touch it. Touching it means that everything is reset in his mind and he’s even less sure that what he’s seeing and feeling is even real, and oh god he’s going to burn down the building and – His phone pings. 

He falls onto his bed and brings the screen closer to his face, squinting into the brightness of it. 

_Phil Lester sent you a friend request_

Dan turns his screen off, rolling over onto his stomach so that his face is squished against his pillow. He’s never going to catch a break with this guy, is he? Phil is charming and creative and fit, and Dan is spiraling over something that hasn’t even happened yet. 

He opens Facebook and hastily accepts the request, but for now he’s not going to do any stalking. For the rest of the night, he’s going to stay calm. 

Maybe he’ll do some of the exercises his therapist suggested last time. 

Maybe he’ll have some restraint and only do one run through of the flat before bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) thanks to everyone who left kudos/comments on the first chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit longer! hope you enjoy!

“We’re very proud of you, love. You’ll have to email some photos of your exhibit, now won’t you? I wish we could be there to see it in person.” 

“It’s alright, mum, it’s nothing crazy, really. Just a bit more exposure than I’ve had before. It’s not The Louvre.” 

Phil adjusts his laptop screen, tilting it back so that there’s less glare. His mum is on the other end of a Skype call and she’s way too close to her webcam as usual, but it’s nice to see her face; she hasn’t magically gone old and grey in the past week that they’ve hardly had time to talk. 

“Now, now. You shouldn’t be so nonchalant about this, Phil. It might not be The Louvre but it’s a great way for you to network. Especially if you want this to be more than a hobby.” 

All he can muster at that is a quiet snort – he knows he’s not going to get rich snapping a couple photos. He can’t blame his mum, though, for wanting him to be somewhere other than Tesco. 

“Anyways, when is the reception again?” 

“It’ll be this Sunday. Three days from now.” 

It takes him another ten minutes to get off Skype, discussing the ins and outs of the reception and how he thinks Leah probably doesn’t hate him and might put in a good word to other high up art people. It’s a lot to hope for, and maybe she doesn’t even speak to other gallery owners or snobby socialites, but it’s not outside of the realm of possibility.   
After he puts his laptop away, he goes off into the kitchen to do some washing up that he’s been procrastinating. Then, he pours Tuna some of her dry food, ignoring the way she seems petulant about it not being the wet kind. She’ll eat it eventually; she just has to be dramatic first. 

He wanders over to the lounge, hearing the beginnings of the familiar crunching noises when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and sees that it’s only a Facebook notification, causing him to deflate slightly. He’d like to talk to someone other than his mum on a regular basis.

It doesn’t seem like there’s anything worthwhile to do in his flat. It’s only midday and he feels like an animal pacing around a zoo exhibit, keeping himself distracted with mindless tasks. He showers, shaves his almost nonexistent stubble, and wanks to the first mildly enticing porn video he finds. The halfhearted orgasm only hints at fulfillment for a moment, and then it dissipates. Phil isn’t used to being so unsatisfied with his life, really. He usually finds joy in being a lazy homebody who orders too much takeout and edits photos until his vision goes blurry. Today it isn’t quite enough. 

It’s too cold to go out with his camera, even though his fingers are twitching at just the thought of it. Being out in the world with people and having reassurance that life isn’t confined to his immediate surroundings is always nice. But the wind is sharp and icy today and out his window he can see how miserable everyone looks, shielding their faces with scarves and hats and upturned coat collars. So, he finds himself on his sofa once again cradling his phone in his hands. 

He checks on that notification from before, scrolls through his newsfeed a bit, and stops short when he sees a post shared by Dan Howell. It’s some obscure cat meme, but the realization that Dan added him back makes him do a rather embarrassing little shoulder wiggle out of giddiness. Before he can think of the repercussions and retreat, he opens messenger and begins to type. 

He sends a simple _‘hey! what’s up? xP’_ and quickly switches apps to play games while he waits for a response. 

That is, until he forgets he was waiting for one. 

Phil goes through the rest of his evening as normal, with a movie binge and a whole bag of jumbo marshmallows. It isn’t until he’s at the end credits of Jurassic World and his head is tilted back, sleep threatening to take him under, that his phone pings. It startles him awake again and he groans in exhaustion, running his fingers through the quiff that’s fallen flat against his head. Dan’s name lights up before him and he sits up straight, blinking away the bleariness.

Dan has written: _‘phil! stuck in 2013 with your xD ?? i can send a time machine to save you’_

Phil huffs out a breath of laughter, picturing how Dan would probably have the cheekiest grin on his face if he had said that in person. 

_‘Please let me cling onto my youth for just one decade more. Besides, only heartless people don’t use emojis’_

_‘what about soulless?’_

_‘Wow dan, your edginess is showing tonight.’_

_‘we barely know each other. you haven’t seen the extent of my edge’_

Phil feels marginally more awake now that it seems the conversation is going somewhere. He might have an exhaustion-addled, sleep deprived brain, but the fact that they’re talking this late at night could have deeper connotations than casual friendship. Phil isn’t sure if he wants that to be the case. What does he want from Dan? He doesn’t want any messy attachments, or a friendship stilted with awkwardness because he doesn’t know how to be subtle. However, Phil knows that anything he decides before Wednesday will be pointless; when has he ever had self-control? Certainly not tonight, as he squints down at his phone and clumsily types out his reply.

_‘Maybe I want to see the extent of your edge’_

_‘ooh scandalous, phil. i’m not that easy. i don’t whip out the emo fringe and eyeliner until the fifth date’_

Phil rolls his eyes and turns his screen off. It feels like a lot. It’s been a while since he’s flirted with someone – even longer since it’s been someone as attractive as Dan. His instincts are telling him to shut it all down and retreat. Those instincts work for all of six minutes before the option of loneliness becomes an even greater threat, and he’s met face to face with his sad under-chin reflection that the blackness provides.

_‘Oh really? What base do you have to get to before you cry in the shower to the black parade??’_

_‘at least sixth base m8’_

_‘I thought there were only 4 o.O’_

_‘not the way i do it (: <’ _

_‘I am genuinely afraid to ask. You’re odd dan howell’_

The next message takes a while to come through. Phil even sees the little chat bubble appear and disappear a good number of times, and he worries a bit. Tuna has time to trot down the hall and jump up onto his lap in the meantime. He absentmindedly strokes behind her ear as he waits, soft purrs filling the room’s silence.

_‘not bad odd, right?’_

_‘No!! a good kind. Just the right amount’_

_‘well hey, you did say you attract strange people’_

Phil takes a steadying breath, fingers fidgeting skittishly against his keyboard and immediately deleting the random letters he chooses. Tuna presses an insistent paw against his stomach as she stretches out her limbs.

_‘Are you implying something?’_

_‘you said it, not me. i’ll talk to you later, phil, i’ve got things to do before bed’_

_‘Goodnight then’_

There’s never another response. All that’s left is Phil, alone with an annoying cat and his own racing thoughts as company. Someone in the flat next to his slams a door and he startles, burying his face in his hands as his heart rate leaps upwards. He feels weird. Nothing had quite gone wrong tonight, but it wasn’t what was expected, either. It’s just weird. Once he realizes Dan has no intentions of replying, he scoops up Tuna’s chunky body and carries her back to his bedroom to sleep. 

-

The three days leading up to Sunday go by in a blur. Phil manages to go out once and snap a few photos – nothing too groundbreaking or spectacular, but it pulls him out of the funk he was slipping into. He calls his mum again and tidies his bedroom drawers and does some editing. It’s nice. He doesn’t get any more messages from Dan, which kind of sucks, but it’s truly okay. He’s doing fine on his own and there’s no distractions leading up to the reception. 

On Sunday he wakes up at nine to get ready; nothing too fancy, a shower and some sea salt spray in his hair and a couple of contacts instead of the thick-rimmed glasses. He pulls on some black jeans (standing by the opinion that they can be dressed up as well as down) and his maroon button up with the white hearts. It’s nice to be up and decent at a reasonable hour for once. 

As he’s leaving, he feeds Tuna and gives her a good nuzzling with his nose, promising to be home before curfew. She seems to care a minimal amount. 

The streets are quieter than normal on his walk to the gallery. The rumbling of buses and the commotion of pedestrians aren’t so intense. It might be the fact that it’s only ten, but it’s pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that when he strolls by Starbucks and the smell of overpriced coffee hits him, he follows it into the building. There’s no rush getting to the gallery as the reception will be happening all afternoon. This detour can be his reward for even having a reception to go to. 

Once inside, he sees that the queue is quite long, and he pulls out his phone to pass the time and look at mediocre memes on Reddit. At the front he orders a caramel macchiato to go, and then has a brilliant idea to make it two caramel macchiatos instead. He carries them both out with a grin, glad that he had the thought to bring one for Leah. It might be a shady move to bribe a gallery owner, but a small incentive to remember his name couldn’t possibly be a bad thing.

When he gets to the place, he juggles his drinks a bit to be able to open the door – still bloody heavy – and splashes a bit of coffee onto his arm. He tries to discreetly wipe it away, hyper-aware of how crowded it is inside. There are more people in here today than both last times combined. Phil looks around in search of Leah, carefully navigating the room to avoid any more coffee incidents. He spots her head of blonde hair at the opposite side where she talks to a small group of people. She looks rather preoccupied, but Phil doesn’t want her drink to get cold. He walks toward her with purpose, dodging anyone in his way. 

The one person he doesn’t see, though, appears out of nowhere. 

A hand brushes against his shoulder and he spins around in alarm. It’s Dan. 

“Hi – uh, sorry for spooking you. I didn’t want to yell over everyone to get your attention. Hi.” 

Phil bites back a smile. 

“You said that already. Hi, Dan. Nice to see you again.” 

The words come across as too professional, too impersonal and awkward. That doesn’t seem to deter Dan, though. He gives Phil a goofy grin and looks pointedly down at the paper cups in his hands. 

“For a special someone?” 

It’s horribly endearing and almost… expectant? 

Why would he- Oh. _Oh, what the hell,_ Phil thinks. 

This wasn’t his intention at all, but he would almost rather die than tell Dan that the coffee is for Leah. He could technically give one to Dan and the other to Leah, but he’s too selfish for that. There will always be more chances to stand out in the art scene, right? It’s a comforting thought at least as he hands the cup over; their fingers brush on the most miniscule level. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Howell.” 

Phil watches as he takes a sip and hums in enjoyment. His lips are pink around the lid, probably artificially given the subtle shimmer that sweeps across them. A gloss, then. That’s an interesting touch. 

“Caramel macchiato? Classic choice.” 

Phil drinks from his own and sighs at the warmth of it traveling down. 

“Yeah. Needed some sweetness today,” he says. 

He doesn’t think it was a particularly weird thing to say, but the way Dan tilts his head with a conspiratorial grin suggests otherwise. Dan looks nice today, back to all black, his jumper sleeves far too long for his already long arms. Phil kind of wants to reach out and feel the fabric as it looks undeniably soft, but he nudges his gaze elsewhere. Today is a big day, one he needs to be present for and remember. 

“So, are you busy now? Maybe you can be my guide.” 

“You’ve been here twice, mate. You gonna get lost?” 

“So no, then?” 

“Shut up,” Dan laughs. 

They walk around at look at the whole exhibit together. The different pieces are wildly varied and unconnected, seeming to jump from one idea to the next with no warning. Dan tells him that usually, they will choose an exhibit theme and have artists submit pieces for approval, with a whole letter written about how their pieces connect to the theme. Last month’s theme was Truth and Consequences, but this showing is just a general exhibit. No fancy questions about morality or human behavior or the meaning of life. 

Phil doesn’t mention that he already knows all of this, that the only reason he jumped at the opportunity of this gallery is that he saw there were no specific guidelines this time around. It felt easier, squeezing his photographs into a public space without having to justify their existence. But to Dan he only nods, occasionally sipping away at his drink. 

Most of the other people milling about seem to be older, well into their fifties and sixties, the kind of people who don’t have anything more important to be doing on a Sunday afternoon. A couple of younger people filter in and out, but they don’t stay for nearly as long. Phil understands. He doesn’t linger on any specific work for too long, more content to gather his initial thoughts and move on to the next. 

Dan is different. He wants to stare at each painting and print and analyze every detail, eyes flitting across the shapes and colors like they could spell out secrets to him. Phil finds himself observing that whole process more than he observes the art itself, which is stupid of him. It’s downright stupid how drawn he is to this practical stranger – all because of a few shared laughs and some incidental flirting. It shouldn’t make his stomach churn to watch Dan’s eyebrow crease as he leans forward to read a description card beneath an oil painting. 

“Haven’t you seen all of these already?” Phil asks. 

“I don’t like spoilers. I wait until the receptions because it feels more authentic to experience it all when everyone else does.” 

“But you’ve seen mine already.” 

Dan turns his body away from the wall, instead meeting Phil’s stare with a curious one of his own. 

“Yeah. That was worth the spoiler, though.” 

They don’t stop looking at each other. It feels weighty, but Phil can only focus on the sweat between his hands and his coffee, the buzzing in his ears from the quiet conversations in the room. He doesn’t know how to categorize this or make it into a casual interaction, so instead he starts to stammer out an escape. 

“I think we should, um. Find Leah. I meant to say hello to her. Don’t want to be rude.” 

Dan’s eyes seem to soften. 

“Sure. She’s never still for a moment during these, though, so it might be brief. She thinks she has to do a million things at once.” 

Phil gets a small laugh from that, only for the irony of her assistant doing next to nothing as he explains it. What is she paying him for? 

They do find her shortly after, talking to a man in a smart blazer. Phil can’t help but to glance down at his own outfit, wondering if maybe he should have gone the extra mile. Leah and the man soon wrap up their conversation, and she gives Dan and Phil a smile as he walks away. 

“Dan, there you are. You know you’re supposed to keep boring men away from me,” she stage-whispers, glancing in the direction that he’s gone. 

Dan laughs at her as if this is something they’ve discussed before. 

“How was I supposed to know he’s boring?” 

“Because he’s a man,” Leah retorts. 

“Ouch. You really know how to wound me. Anyways – we just wanted to say hello. Well, Phil did anyways. I would very much love to leave now.” 

Dan holds his wrist up and looks at what’s supposed to be an imaginary watch, his lips pursed in distaste. Phil almost forgets that a normal person would laugh, but he remembers at the last second and forces one out. It’s unnatural and awkward, but he couldn’t seem to keep his stare off Dan’s lips. It’s like his social compass had broken and he’s incapable of steering himself back in the right direction. Like the needle of said compass keeps pointing to a certain guy when it has no reason to. 

Leah tuts at Dan but doesn’t give him any more of a reaction, and then she gives Phil a solid pat on the shoulder. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Phil. I hope you’re having a good time, and that Dan isn’t giving you trouble. Say the word and I’ll sack him.” 

The words are so serious and calm that for a moment Phil has trouble keeping up, but the miniscule twitch of Leah’s mouth makes him huff out a breath of laughter. He’s starting to get used to her humor, but it’s still kind of jarring. 

“Yeah, say it, Phil,” Dan mumbles over the lid of his Starbucks cup. 

Phil stammers for a second, wanting almost desperately to join their banter and not look like a stick in the mud. 

“Sorry mate, not today. I think a better punishment would be making you stay here. Since you seem so eager.” 

Phil’s eyes flicker between them both briefly before Dan gives him a little eyebrow wiggle, and he can already tell something horrible is going to be said before Dan even opens his mouth. 

“Ooh, punish me dad.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and immediate regret seems to flash across Dan’s face before he pulls himself together again, albeit looking rosier in the cheeks than before. Leah makes a fake gagging noise and holds both of her hands in front of her, palms forward in surrender. 

“Okay, I’m out. That was my limit. Dan - be good and stay the hell out of the storage. I’m not paying you to hide.” 

Her shoes click across the floor as she joins a small crowd that seems to be doing more talking than looking at the art. Phil wonders if any of these people even care about the exhibit, or if they show up to talk to their mates and pretend to be intellectuals. He turns to ask Dan about it, but he hesitates when their eyes meet. Something about it makes the words die on his tongue and he freezes up, not even having the decency to blink. Thankfully, the rational part of his mind finally kicks in and he manages to get out a different, more important request, digging his phone out of his pocket to avoid addressing his weird staring problem. 

“Could you, um, get a picture of me next to my photos? It’s for my mum.” 

Dan nods, smiling tightly. It sucks that they’re both suddenly so awkward, as it makes Phil’s brain go into anxiety mode, but he isn’t sure how to snap them out of it. 

“Sure, let’s go.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dan’s palms are damp as he holds Phil’s phone, the rubber case being the only thing that’s stopping it from slipping out of his grasp. Ever since he made that stupid joke and called Phil ‘dad’ he’s been inwardly cringing at himself, beating himself up for being this way. 

He never knows when to stop, and now everything is weird. In all honesty it’s almost made him feel sick or perverse, like all this time he’s been reading the signals wrong and there’s no way in hell Phil could like him. As if he’s somehow unfairly objectified this man he barely knows and he’s gross and wrong and shouldn’t have this crush. But now he’s looking at him through the phone’s camera, at the lean body casually relaxed against the cream-colored wall and the universal half-smile someone does when they know they’re being photographed. Dan snaps the photo, taking two or three identical ones just in case. 

His mind is still in spiral mode, but he’s slowly coming down from it. Not all thoughts are going to be rational, or kind, or even fathomable. Some of them are intrusive and untrue. Dan wants to believe that the ones about him being perverted are only intrusive; surely one inappropriate joke doesn’t make him a monster. His therapist would probably give him the most unimpressed stare if he voiced these thoughts to her. He can already hear her voice, saying that he’s catastrophizing everything again. Phil doesn’t hate him over one poorly executed comment. 

Dan still can’t bring himself to say anything of value though once he’s done, handing the phone back silently and discreetly wiping his hand on his jeans. The initial crowd in the gallery is beginning to dwindle down as more and more people filter out through the door. This was only the first wave of high volume, however. It typically gets kind of dead in the middle of the afternoon and picks back up in the evening hours, when everyone is out of work. The evening happens to be when Dan finally has a role to fill, and he’ll be handing out refreshments in the form of tiny flutes of champagne, along with smoked salmon and avocado bites from some expensive catering service they can’t afford. Leah always gets overly-enthusiastic about ordering pretentious food, unfortunately. 

He always feels like a proper dolt when he’s stuck serving the refreshments, but it at least gives him something to do other than stare at walls. 

Or Phil. 

Phil, who’s giving him a concerned expression, head tilted like some a damn puppy or something. 

“You okay, Dan?” 

“Yeah, yep. I’m good.” 

“Am I keeping you from work? I don’t want you to genuinely get in trouble because of me.” 

Dan snorts, knowing that he’s been the one relentlessly trailing behind Phil this whole time, never stopping to ask if he minds. Maybe this is Phil’s way of gently telling him to bugger off. 

“You’re not going to get me in trouble. But if you’d rather go mingle with the patrons, I get it. Today is your day.” 

He half-expects Phil to sigh in relief and leave, but instead he takes a few steps forward. Suddenly he’s very much in Dan’s personal space, making his head spin with the proximity. Those stupid blue eyes are close enough that he can see the green rings around the pupils, giving them enough depth that Dan feels he could just fall forward a bit and enter a different universe inside of them. His own melodrama nearly makes him gag. 

“You want to know a secret?” Phil asks. 

Dan only nods, not trusting his mouth. 

“I don’t want to mingle with any of them. I thought this day would feel like some big breakthrough, but really, nothing is going to change.” 

It sounds a lot like disappointment to Dan’s ears, and he notices his own shoulders slump at the words. 

“What do you mean?” 

Phil shrugs and hooks a finger into his jeans pocket, but in such a way that his hand weirdly juts out, looking uncomfortable. That’s another problem for another time, even if Dan can’t shake the image from his mind. What a truly odd person. 

“It’s just, that. Well. Tomorrow I’ll be right back at Tesco, won’t I? And something like this probably won’t happen again, realistically.” 

“You’re bloody mad. Of course it will.” 

Phil only looks at him questioningly, taking a sip once more of his macchiato. It must have gone cold, as his nose quickly scrunches up in disgust as he shakes his head. 

“What makes you say that?” 

“You’re good at what you do, Phil. The editing on your photos is like, professional. And they’ve got personality.” 

Not sure how to deal with the proximity any longer, Dan takes a discreet half-step backwards and breathes out. He’s so out of his depths right now, as this type of heart to heart has never suited him. He barely gets on smoothly with his own parents, never opening up more than he needs to, but this is different. It’s almost natural in a way, to comfort Phil through his doubts. It’s hard to imagine only giving him a pat on the back and getting on with his day. There needs to be no more doubts at all. 

“Thanks, Howell. You’re alright sometimes.” 

“I try,” Dan laughs. Some vague sense of relief washes over him. 

“So, when do you get lunch?” 

“Uh, in about an hour. Why? You want to join me for more sad crisps in storage?” 

“Or we could actually go out and I’ll buy you something with some kind of nutritional value.”

-

No more than an hour later, they end up at some local burger joint that was only around the corner from the gallery. Dan hasn’t been inside before, but on his daily commute he’s often tortured by the aroma of greasy food that filters out into the streets. They’re at a booth and they’ve just been given two menus by a young girl who looks like she could still be in sixth form. Picking up his menu, Dan tries to scan the page for something on the cheaper side, since Phil is insisting on paying. They bickered about it the whole walk here, and he finally had to give in when Phil mentioned that he hasn’t taken anyone out to lunch in ages and he’d feel bad otherwise. 

So now he’s got his eyes on some meal deal basket of chicken tenders and a rumbling stomach from his skipped breakfast. It’s not entirely his fault, though, that he’s starving. This morning had given him an unfair amount of anxiety-related nausea; it was partially from the thought of seeing Phil again, and partially just a step of his everyday routine. But now he’s here and he’s ready to obnoxiously order one of every dipping sauce and pretend that sitting across from Phil alone in a booth doesn’t make him want to fall into some farfetched fantasy that this is a date. 

It’s not one at all. If anything, this would be… a work lunch. Between two coworkers slash friends. 

Dan leans back on his seat, glancing down at the tacky red vinyl beneath him. Everything in here is a weird American-esque tribute to some 1950’s diner aesthetic. The floors are black and white checks, the walls are a horrid shade of red and there are framed photos of The Beatles and The Yardbirds and fuck knows who else in all those monochrome snapshots of various white guys in matching clothing. Above their booth is a framed Elvis record, presumably more special than other Elvis records, though Dan can’t be arsed to read the engravement underneath it. 

“So, have you ever been here before?” Dan asks, noting the uncharacteristic silence. 

“Nope, but it’s got burgers, so I’m already sold.” 

“You seem to be a man of simple pleasures, Lester.” 

He turns the last-name-card around on Phil, remembering how earlier he was called Howell. It gave him an unfair amount of school flashbacks of being called on by teachers by his surname on a constant basis. School was especially rough on him not only because he was naively polite and decidedly queer, but also because kids could pick on him for all his OCD shit. He wasn’t diagnosed way back then, but he’d pick up a few annoying repetitions and made himself a target by not being able to stop clicking his pencil or cracking his knuckles until all the tension in his body relaxed. He falls into those memories until he hears Phil snort and sees him shake his head. 

“Maybe I am. What more do you need than greasy food, a laptop, and a cat?” 

He has Dan nodding along until he hears the word cat. He’s more of a dog person if he had to choose just one, but hearing that Phil has any pets at all is exciting. He leans forward, trying his best to look serious. 

“Show. Me. The cat.” 

Phil goes through his phone’s camera roll for a bit, giggling to himself occasionally at whatever he’s seeing on there. Eventually he slides it across the table to Dan. The picture is of an orange cat sprawled out on the floor, a dusting of… something, sprinkled out around it and even some in its fur. The cat’s green eyes are half-opened, making it look half-awake. Dan laughs despite his confusion and slides it back. 

“That’s the time she broke her toy with catnip and got unreasonably fucked up.” 

That cracks Dan up even more, and he finds himself burying his head in his hands to cope with it. He wishes he lived with an animal instead of a person. That sounds ideal. 

“So, what’s her name, then?” 

“Tuna.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“No, really!” Phil laughs, tilting his head back. 

Dan notices that he sticks his tongue out between his teeth like a big cute dork, and he knows that he’s not going to get over this crush for a good while. There hasn’t been a single thing yet that would make him retreat, and that’s rare for someone like him, who could spend days at a time alone in his room. 

“Poor thing.” 

“She loves her name, thank you very much.”

After lunch, they walk side by side back to the gallery. Phil talks about Tuna and his mum and anything that comes to mind, and Dan listens with the full intent to remember it all. He’s got a full stomach and the hopeful feeling that comes along with making a new friend. It may be quick and presumptuous of him to think so, but he considers Phil a friend – and it makes him smile until his cheeks are aching from the unfamiliarity. They talk about video games and films and anime and all the weird niche interests Dan has that he never gets to talk about. It’s so refreshing to him that someone is willing to listen. 

When they get to the gallery, Phil stops walking as they pass by the window. It still looks empty inside, which is good, because Dan’s technically fifteen minutes late getting back from lunch. He figures Lee won’t mind too much, especially if she can make fun of how smitten he is over Phil. She always has seemed so in tune with his emotions, for better or worse. 

“So, Dan. Do the artists usually stay for the whole reception?” Phil asks. 

He’s looking out across the street but doesn’t seem to be focused on anything. The wind is whipping his shock of black hair about in an unflattering direction, but it somehow doesn’t matter, as he still looks fine. Dan allows himself to look down at Phil’s arms crossed over his chest, the way that they’re slim but toned and the way that the maroon shirt contrasts nicely with his rather ghastly skin. 

“Not usually, no. They sort of filter in and out. Or show up for five minutes and book it.” 

Phil hums, but doesn’t offer anything else. Dan looks through the window again, rolling his shoulders up and back to try to relax. It’s fine. Leah isn’t going to whack him over the head for being late; it’s just the guilt that eats at him for not even doing the easy parts of his already mindless job. 

“So, are you off then?” 

“I think I need to be. Tuna has been alone for a while. When do you get to leave?” 

Dan pauses before replying, his breath getting stuck in his lungs. 

“Um. Eight. I’m out at eight.” 

Some car down the street honks its horn and Phil jumps, but he laughs it off almost immediately. He turns towards Dan and something hesitant in his expression, just a hint of a smile playing at his pink lips. 

“Do you want to hang out after? You could meet Tuna and we could play on my Switch or something. If you want. Unless I’m being weird and you don’t…“ 

“Phil, mate. Calm your tits. That sounds lovely.” 

Dan’s sure that his heart is going to beat out of his chest, or that he’s going to spontaneously combust. He laughs for no reason, hanging his head to look down at his shoes. There’s no way he could meet Phil’s eyes right now. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Go feed your cat, whose name I refuse to believe is real. And you can send your address later.” 

“Okay. Later, Dan.” 

The sound of retreating footsteps is enough to make Dan look, and he sighs as he sees him go.

That evening he finds himself wandering aimlessly around the room he knows so well, slipping effortlessly through the newly formed crowd. Some were here earlier and only reappeared for the promise of refreshments, which is honestly understandable. Dan keeps finding himself wanting to take a flute of champagne for himself. As it is, though, he doesn’t have enough hands or coordination to drink one and pass them about at the same time. He finds himself standing towards the back, near a certain set of photos, where there’s less people. An unfortunate truth he’s discovered is that people do seem to spend less time at Phil’s space. Some will hum thoughtfully or lean forward to look at the label which has his name and the medium used, but they don’t linger. It hasn’t sparked any debate like some of the other, more provocative pieces. 

Dan gets that, though. He just wishes the photos were taken for what they are, no more and no less. 

Even standing back here doesn’t completely rid him of human interaction, it seems, as Leah speed walks towards him and plucks a flute of champagne from his tray in one fluid motion. 

“Hey babes, you doing alright?” 

“Peachy. How come you get to drink?” 

“Because I paid for it, dollface.” 

Dan snorts. 

“What’s up with the nicknames tonight?” 

Leah takes a long sip of her champagne, leaving a smudge of rosy lipstick on the rim. She looks dead tired. 

“I have no ulterior motives.” 

“Spit it out, Lee. I’ve got to get middle aged men tipsy.” 

There’s defeat in Leah’s sigh as she tips her head back, letting it rest against the wall, right where Phil’s umbrella photo is. 

“I wanted to see if you’re okay. You went out with Phil and when you came back you didn’t have your I-just-got-snogged face on.” 

Even through his annoyance, Dan finds it within himself to laugh at that. He takes Leah’s flute and downs a drink of it quickly, handing it back before she can protest too loudly. They’re probably already gaining too much attention as it is. 

“We got lunch. That’s all. He’s a mate.” 

“He’s a mate that you want to do sexy stuff with,” Leah nods somberly. 

Dan counts to three in his head before he even thinks about replying, clutching onto the drinks tray like a lifeline. 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“I know. I’ll let you work now. Two more hours and you’re a free man.” 

She downs the rest of her drink in one go, walking away from him. It’s a good thing, too, as he was only beginning to go red in the face. That would have been a dead giveaway. When he’s sure that no one is looking his way, he gets his phone and goes to his Facebook messages. He sees the last goodnight message he’d sent to Phil and cringes slightly, remembering the anxious checking and rechecking he’d done that night. 

_‘hey nerd send me your address’_


	5. Chapter 5

“You know I hate being disappointed in you, right? There’s nothing I want to do less than scold you, but this is really the last straw. I’m going to need some time to process this. Maybe even therapy.” 

Phil stares down towards the carnage at his feet, the latest mangled victim of Tuna taunting him. He kneels to get a closer look, sighing at the indisputable wreckage. Threads are loose and tangled, and chunks of cotton are pulled out of his favorite Gengar plushie like some horrible stuffed toy version of viscera. It looks as though Tuna had dragged it around all day while he’s been at the gallery. 

“I don’t want to hear a peep from you while I clean this up. You literally have a whole bin full of toys you don’t play with.” 

Tuna just blinks up at him from her spot on the lounge’s floor, before ignoring him in favor of curling her tail around her chunky orange body and closing her eyes. Phil supposes that’s better than nipping and scratching at his feet while he works, so he gets to scooping up the remains of his fallen plushie. Maybe now he’ll start keeping them all in closets or that big trunk at the foot of his bed. 

Once he’s finished, he spends half an hour cleaning the flat, doing mundane things like dusting the curtains and fetching all the socks that somehow ended up beneath his sofa. Usually there’s no need to ever keep things so pristine, but this might be the first time in over a month that he’s had anyone around to his place. So, he moves Tuna’s litter box to his office space and sprays down his whole flat with some too-strongly-scented tropical room spray that he hasn’t used the entire time he’s lived here. It ends up being a horrible mistake and he spends far too long with his head stuck out of his window afterwards, trying not to choke on the strong fumes he’d accidentally overloaded his home with. His eyes are still watering when he spots one of his neighbors on the street outside waving down a cab. 

After it’s all cleared up, he texts Dan to ask what kind of pizza he prefers and then orders some Domino’s, probably way too much for just two people. Half an hour later there’s a knock on his door and he feels his heart leap up within his throat, but he straightens out his shirt and opens it with a grin. It’s a grin too enthusiastic to be giving the pizza delivery guy, but he pushes through the awkwardness and gives the most generous tip he can afford. 

Just as he’s setting the boxes down on the table there’s a new knock. 

This one is of a quieter variety, three timid little taps that really get his heart beating fast this time around. He paces to the door and wipes his clammy hands on his shirt before letting Dan in. And there he is, pretty as ever, stood in the shitty hall lighting with a shy smile. Phil moves to let him in, gesturing to his lounge. 

“Come on in. You’re right on time for an ungodly amount of food.” 

Dan laughs, slipping his shoes off at the door; Phil would tell him it’s no trouble to keep them on, but he’s still a bit tongue-tied that this is happening. He really needs to get out more. 

“Sweet. Just what I need after today.” 

“Yeah? Was it that bad?” 

Phil gets two plates out and serves them both, watching from the corner of his eye as Dan takes a seat at his counter like he belongs there, lanky and comfortable. 

“It wasn’t _all_ bad. But the evening was tedious. I had to pass out fucking finger foods and smile and say things like ‘another champagne, sir?’” 

“You tragic thing, you.” 

“Piss off,” Dan laughs. 

He takes the glass of coke Phil pours him with a nod of thanks, and then he gets started on his pizza – specifically the Sizzler half that he insisted on. It must be reasonably better than the Texas Barbecue because he all but weeps, sniffling dramatically as he swallows the first bite down. 

“Dan, if you start crying into your pizza I’m going to be concerned.” 

“It’s not my fault that they make it so good. I could die happy right now. I might be a little tipsy, too, but it’s still fucking heavenly.” 

“I take it you’ve had some champagne too, then?” 

Dan shrugs his shoulders back and takes another bite, and only now does Phil notice the pink glow to his skin, or the way he seems much floatier than earlier. It worries him a touch that Dan had gotten all the way here after a few drinks, when the sun had gone down well over two hours ago. It’s not that they’re in a dangerous area, but bad things happen all the time. 

“Not a ton. Lee is a bad influence on me sometimes. She thinks I need, like, social lubrication to function or whatever.” 

Phil laughs under his breath, tilting back his glass of soda so he can avoid being immature about the word lubrication. Once he’s sure it’s under control he looks over Dan and ignores the knowing glint in his eyes. 

“So, she knows you were coming over? Didn’t think it’s weird?” 

“God, Phil. People our age can still have mates. She’s glad you invited me. Definitely thinks it’s a sex thing, but she’s glad.” 

Phil freezes for too long for it to be natural, but somehow schools his expression before it would be so weird that he’d be called out. There shouldn’t be a sudden shakiness to his hands over something as juvenile as hearing his crush talk about sex. That alone shouldn’t make his stomach twist with nerves at the realization that this does sort of feel like he’s made a move. He invited Dan over at night for no real reason – and even if Dan thought it might have been an effort to get him into his bed, he had showed up anyways. What does that mean? Is he going to have to explain that he’s not looking for a hookup? That would be almost unbearably awkward, especially if the thought had never crossed Dan’s mind. 

Maybe he should just- 

“ _Oh!_ What a sweet little thing you are!” Dan exclaims, snapping Phil out of it. 

His voice had gone all high-pitched and posh, which is nothing short of endearing, in response to Tuna finally coming over to sniff out the guest. She’s walking circles around the legs of the bar stool, trying to find a way to subtly rub against Dan’s long shins that reach close to the floor even from his high seat. It’s obvious that her intentions are far from innocent. 

“Tuna, you’re not getting pizza,” Phil says.

“Oh, but Phil, she deserves it. Look at her, she’s starving.” 

“She has literally eaten more than I have today. It’s almost diet time for her.” 

Phil reaches down to give the top of her head a scratch, eliciting a quiet purr. She doesn’t stick around for much longer, though, realizing that no one is going to be discreetly dropping pieces of food down onto the floor. A couple of minutes later they hear her nails dragging across the fabric of Phil’s couch, making him wince. Revenge really is Tuna’s strong suit. 

Between the two of them they end up finishing off a horrendous amount of pizza and a couple of the chocolate chip cookies that Phil had also ordered. It’s the first time in a while that he ordered Domino’s without some of it going to waste, so he figures not being an actual hermit does have some perks. They find themselves sat on the sofa, each of them with a Switch remote and a glass of wine in tow. After a brief debate over which game to play, Dan wins with the argument that _1-2-Switch_ would be hilarious after they both get some alcohol into their systems. Until then, though, he convinces Phil that they can just hang out and watch some telly while they get casually tipsy on a Wednesday night. It’s not the worst idea in the world, but Phil makes sure to only take baby sips while they get through three entire episodes of Riverdale. 

Dan makes fun of the show the whole time, pointing out the sub-par acting and the weirdness of the plot. At one point he nudges Phil’s leg with his socked toe to get his attention. 

“Hey Phil, guess what?” 

“What?” 

Phil laughs when he sees him, sat on the sofa as if he’s never been on one before, with one long leg slung carelessly over the arm of it and the other stretched out in front of him. 

“I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. I don’t fit in. I don’t want to fit in. Have you ever seen me without this stupid hat on?” He recites the monologue all while swaying his empty glass around, sighing dramatically at the pause in his words. 

“It’s _weird_.” 

“This is Jughead slander.” 

By the time they’re a few rounds into _1-2-Switch_ , Dan is slightly more than tipsy. Phil has already put the wine away as a subtle way to cut him off, but the damage has been done. He’s stood a meter away with the red controller in his hand, his fingers wrapped around it steadily. The game has explicitly said that they’re meant to be making eye contact, and Dan seems to be a stickler for the rules. He stares at Phil with widened pupils and slowly pumps his hand down and up again; Phil does the same and winces at the vibrations from his controller. 

“I hate this,” he says, and looks over at the screen. 

The utter on his half of the television screen squeezes out some milk as he drags his hand down again. It’s undeniably suggestive and he feels his cheeks warm up as he does it again, trying to fill up the most bottles. 

“Eyes on me.” 

This time when he meets Dan gaze it’s full of mirth, but his bottom lip is caught between his teeth in concentration. It’s almost like he wants Phil to react in some way, to close that meter of space standing between them. Or it could just be the wine. The uncomfortable utter-yanking goes on for ten more agonizing seconds, before the totals add up and Dan wins by a landslide. He cheers for himself and immediately goes back to the menu to choose another mini game. 

They decide to skip on the yoga and mildly homoerotic cowboy ones, but Dan stops on the soda shaking one. 

Phil watches the instructions play out on the screen with a sinking stomach – of course that little shit picked this one. 

“Nintendo is trolling us so hard right now,” he says. 

Dan starts the mini game without a word and begins to shake the controller like it’s a bottle of soda. Little bubbles float up on the screen from the intensity of it. He hands it over to Phil and the residual vibrations from the motions buzz against his palm. He gives it a hesitant shake, eyes squinted as if it will actually burst and spray him in the face. The bubbles on the screen are few. 

“Oh, come on, do it like you mean it,” Dan says. 

“No, that’s terrifying,” Phil retorts, handing it back over in fear that he’ll be the one to set it off. 

That fear doesn’t seem to be instilled within his friend, however, as he does it just as quickly and confidently as before, and then passes it on without batting an eyelash. The crudeness is either not a bother to him or is going completely unnoticed. Phil wants to win just as much as he wants the tension in the air to disappear, so he sticks with his strategy of only barely moving the controller. But then there’s a hand wrapped around his own and Dan is practically forcing him to shake it more, and Phil can’t even bring himself to pull away or laugh about it. He can only look up at Dan, who’s hands are so big and warm and swallow his up effortlessly. Dan’s looking back at him with an eyebrow raised, and when he takes a step back, he slips the controller out of Phil’s grasp and takes his turn in the same fashion as before. 

“This isn’t a game you can dance around, Lester. You’ve gotta do it all or nothing.” 

“All or nothing,” Phil agrees, swallowing down the lump in his throat. 

They pass it back and forth a few more times, and each time Phil gets braver and bolder with his moves. Dan’s eventually the one to make the lid pop off bottle, the liquid inside spilling over in dramatic fashion. 

The night wraps up after a few more rounds of the game, all of them vaguely suggestive. They keep tally of the points and Dan walks away the victor, doing a little dance around the lounge to celebrate. He even picks Tuna up and spins around with her, much to her obvious distaste as she leaps out of his arms in alarm. Phil pretends to be put off, rolling his eyes and calling him a sore winner as he turns off the console and puts away their mess. 

Dan helps him carry their empty dishes to the sink and even offers to do the washing up, but he’s quickly ushered away as Phil jokes about him being too intoxicated to be trusted with his good glasses. 

“I have to repay you somehow. You’ve bought me two whole meals and a coffee! In one day! That’s critical levels of politeness, mister.” 

Dan pokes his chest with a blunt fingertip, and then wrestles with his shoes as he slips them on by the doorway. Phil has called him a cab home with little to no resistance, not daring to let him walk alone this time around. 

“We’ll talk it over on Facebook or something. Maybe I’ll get you to babysit Tuna one day.” 

“Ugh, you sound like my grandma. Here,” Dan hands his phone over. 

“Put your number in and I’ll text you. Unless you’re only being nice, and you don’t want to see me again because I got weird and tipsy on you.” 

Phil scoffs and finishes typing out his contact information, returning the phone with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. 

“You weren’t weird. Just socially lubricated.” 

“So, you’re not going to ghost me?” 

“Nah, mate. In fact, text me when you’re home safe so I know you’re not murdered by your cabbie.” 

“So considerate,” Dan chuckles. 

He leans against the wall next to the door and closes his eyes, probably to prevent himself from falling over (given the wobbly state of his legs that Phil can’t help but notice). 

A few minutes later he’s standing right outside of his building to make sure Dan gets into the right cab, shivering in his short sleeves and the house slippers that he hastily slipped on as he decided to follow him out. Phil waves as the car drives off, soon disappearing around a corner. There’s a fluttery sensation in his chest when he’s on the lift back up to his flat that is begging to be examined, but he pushes it away for now. 

He can’t afford to let himself feel the guilt of being a coward around Dan, the guilt of not being truthful or of not kissing him when he wants so badly to. Tonight wouldn’t have been good for that anyways – not when drinks had been involved and there’s a chance he would be taking advantage of the guy. 

Maybe next time, he reasons, as he scoops Tuna up and packs her off to bed with him. Maybe next time he’ll be brave.


	6. Chapter 6

Dan figures that the fun thing about alcohol is that he doesn’t care as much as he usually does. 

The night that he goes home after spending time at Phil’s is a quiet one for his head. He sneaks through the front door and through the lounge, but Andi is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t even pause in the kitchen to count things off in his head, he doesn’t even turn off the table-side lamp that is glowing dimly next to the sofa. That sort of thing would never happen to sober-Dan. 

He finds his way to the bedroom, one hand skimming along the wall as he goes to prevent himself from tripping over his feet or stumbling too noticeably. Even when alone there’s a part of him that thinks he needs to pretend not to be drunk. That is, until he flops down onto his bed and huffs out a comforted sigh. There’s never been anything more heavenly than this bed, the duvet cushioning his tired limbs and the pillows cradling his head that feels like it might weigh twice as much as normal. 

Sleep almost comes as soon as he’s comfortable, but a gentle buzzing keeps going off against his hip. He adjusts his position a few times, wiggling his lower body to try to get it to stop, but it’s quite insistent. 

“Holy fuck, _shut up_ ,” he groans into the sheets. 

And then it stops. 

Content, Dan lets his eyes slip closed, his mouth slack as his breathing becomes shallower. There’s nothing between him and dreamland, not even the usual noise of Andi across the hall watching Vine compilations until 2 a.m. That reigns true only until a familiar song intro blares in his ears and he jerks up, gasping at the suddenness of it. He thought it might have been part of his dream, Britney’s undeniably sensual introduction to _Toxic_ , but then the buzzing against his hip restarts and he finally understands that his phone is ringing. 

Dan struggles to wrestle with his jeans, twisting his hips over to be able to fit his giant hand down into the little pockets. He answers it to stop the noise and jams his finger against the speaker phone button. 

“What.” 

“Dan? You make it home yet?” 

Oh. It’s Phil. Dan grins up at nothing, rolling over onto his stomach to try to stay conscious. His head spins at the movement, parts of his vision going funny, but it fixes itself soon enough - his stomach on the other hand, squirmy and tumbling like clothes in a dryer, does not fix itself. It doubles at the sound of what might be his new favorite voice.

“I’m home. Are you home?” 

Phil laughs, airy and light. 

“I never left. Are you going to be okay for the night? Do you live with anyone?” 

That’s too many questions. Dan’s brain races to keep up, but the meaning of the words get a bit jumbled. He takes far too long to remember to reply out loud. 

“Andi lives here. Not tonight though. They’re somewhere…” 

“Andi is somewhere else?” 

“Yeah, not here. But I’m okay. It’s bed time.” 

It’s quiet for a minute, just the sound of light rustling coming from Phil’s side. Dan’s eyelids betray him, and he groans, wondering why Phil’s on the phone in the first place. To check on him? Dan is a fully functioning adult. If he’s sick in the morning he’ll deal with it. He’s not even that drunk – it had only been some champagne at work and a couple glasses of wine. He can handle that with no problem. 

“Phil?” 

“I’m here. Are you already in bed?” 

“Yeah.” 

Something in Dan’s insides whirls, and it’s not nausea. Phil’s voice is deeper over the phone, and smooth like honey. And he’s talking about Dan being in bed and now Dan’s wondering if _Phil_ is in bed, and how nice it would be if they were in the same one. They’re not, though, because the universe is never that lovely. Dan wonders if Phil’s chest would be nice to lay his head on, and it makes him sigh aloud. 

“Do you have a bucket or something just in case?” 

Well. That ruins the mood of the little scenario flashing in his mind. 

“Not gonna need it. I’m good. If anything, I’ll have a headache in the morning, but I’m not gonna be sick. Promise.” 

“Okay. I trust you. But if you need anything, just call me, alright? I feel bad about letting you leave in the state you’re in.” 

“Your mum’s in a state.” 

“Goodnight, Dan.” 

Dan sighs and presses the screen of his phone a little harder against his face. Something about the soft voice on the line and the way his blankets have transformed into a sea of wine-induced waves, like that time he stayed in the ocean too long and he could almost feel the water rocking him from side to side that night in bed – it makes him want to grasp onto something steady. Someone steady that could wrap their arms around him so that he doesn’t float off while he sleeps. There’s a lump in his throat by the time he hears Phil repeat his name a couple times, and he can’t bring himself to return the goodnight. 

Eventually Phil gives up, assuming he’s asleep, and hangs up. Dan rubs his cheeks harshly as he takes in a shaky breath, determined not to be too dramatic tonight. Thankfully the darker thoughts about being alone only linger for a few minutes, until his exhaustion wins out in the end.

The next morning, Dan is woken up by the sound of the hoover in the lounge. His phone informs him it’s almost noon, so he drags himself out of bed and pulls his old Manchester hoodie on for comfort. He’s still got jeans on, which is honestly a crime, so he trades them out for a pair of cotton boxer shorts. Andi will just have to deal with him looking indecent today, because there’s a dull ache at the front of his head and it’s making him feel heavy and sluggish. 

Once he trudges to the kitchen, he puts some coffee on and sits at the table, resting his head against the cool surface. Pretty much all the hair on his body is standing up straight, so when the vacuum is finally turned off, he calls out to Andi. 

“Turn the bloody heat on, my balls are nonexistent.” 

“Maybe if you wore clothes, they’d still be intact!” Andi shoots back quickly. 

Dan decides that the coffee is taking too long and reluctantly heads to the lounge, collapsing on their sofa so that he can pull the soft throw that sits on the back of it over his cold legs. He watches as Andi messes about with the thermostat and shoves his hands into the hoodie pocket as well, fighting back an actual shiver. Is his flat mate a real human being? Who would torture themselves like this? 

“So why are you hoovering at such an hour?” 

“My parents are actually coming in this evening, and this place is disastrous. I’ve been tidying all morning, and I’ve got it under control, but it would be awesome if you wanted to finish off the dishes.” 

Dan groans and pulls the throw over his face, but it’s really the least he can do if Andi wants to handle the rest of the mess that has slowly accumulated. It’s rare that anyone comes over besides Andi’s buddy – that Dan still can’t remember the name of – and they’re well past the point of trying to impress her. So, he ends up drinking his coffee far too fast so that he can wash the mug and sets to work on the dishes with jittery hands. There’s not many in the sink but his underlying “hangover” and the influence of the caffeine makes it much harder to get through them. 

He has to wash them a certain way – three times each, unsurprisingly, and rinse for an indefinite amount of time. He also has an issue with the thought of dish water and the implications of wet food floating around in it, so he never puts the stopper in. The water runs from the faucet the whole time instead, and before he even thinks about washing a dish there can’t be a speck of food touching it, meaning he has to pre-rinse them as well. Almost thirty minutes pass before he’s satisfied with the mere twelve or so dishes and utensils, and his fingers have gone all wrinkled by the time he dries and puts them away. 

He’s thankful that everything went to plan this time around, with no frustrations or excess fretting. Once Andi had caught him crying while doing the dishes because he couldn’t get a piece of a dried Ramen noodle off a bowl and couldn’t bring himself to scrape it off with the dish cloth. It was weird and irrational, and he was embarrassed for days afterwards. 

Just as he’s closing the cupboard door, Andi comes into the kitchen and opens another, tossing him a small white bottle that rattles as Dan catches it. 

“Take one.” 

It’s Dan’s antidepressants, the name _Citalopram_ printed boldly onto the label. 

“I was getting to that,” he says. 

It’s an outright lie, a transparent one. Sometimes it’s hard to convince himself that he needs to rely on an SSRI to get his brain in shape, especially when taking them is supposed to relieve him of some of his rituals. Those are important, as much as they are a hassle. If they stop, then who’s to say that he won’t cause something bad to happen by being negligent? 

“You need some of that sweet serotonin, man.” 

Dan rolls his eyes but twists the cap open anyways and swallows one of the tablets dry, just to be a menace. Andi scrunches up their face and Dan tries not to give away the fact that his throat feels like he’d downed a cup of wood shavings. 

“Okay, weirdo. Are you sticking around tonight? My mum’s bringing some sort of casserole and I can sneak you a plate to your room if you just want to hide out.” 

Dan grimaces, not even close to denying that he does that sometimes. He doesn’t want to sit around all day, though. As foolish or clingy as it might seem, he wants to see Phil again. There were moments last night that are going to stick in his brain for a while – the prolonged eye contact under the guise of being ‘rules of the game’ is at the top of the list. Right beneath that would be the genuine concern Phil had for him when he went home alone at the end of the night, making sure that he wasn’t going to choke on vomit and die in his sleep or something; how gruesomely romantic. 

“Actually, I’ve got plans. Save me leftovers?” 

“What plans?” Andi looks suspicious, but it’s granted given Dan’s hermit-like tendencies. 

“Seeing a friend probably. I met this dude at work, he does photography and stuff. Pretty cool guy.” 

“Pretty fit?” 

For some reason Dan wants to deny it, play everything off as strictly platonic. But then he remembers during their game, when Phil had looked at him so surely with that promise of ‘all or nothing’ that almost definitely had a double meaning. He hopes to God that he’s not betting on the wrong horse when he says “Yeah, actually. He is.” 

Andi smiles, and Dan reaches out to ruffle their ginger hair. It’s getting long, the curls nearly falling into their eyes. Dan’s been jealous of those curls ever since they met, but with a few shared tips about products and styling, he’s managed to make his own look more intentional rather than the mess they were when he first embraced them. He’s still jealous about other things, though: the abundance of freckles, the structured jaw, and the carefully crafted androgyny just to name a few. 

“That’s good. I won’t keep you from him, then.” 

Dan grins back, matching their sudden sunny disposition. His fingers are itching to text Phil, but this moment is good, too. Andi is too good of a friend for him. 

“Will you paint my nails for tonight?” 

Andi grabs his hand and inspects the chipped off polish, just some glittery top coat he’d thrown on a week ago. They don’t look too pleased with it. 

“Clean this off and find a color. This is sad, Daniel. Nails are the windows to the soul, and your soul is shriveled up and crying.” 

Dan laughs, yanking his hand away. “Tell me something I don’t know.” 

Around an hour later, Dan is typing on his phone ever so slowly, paranoid that he’ll mess up his nails with one wrong move. They’re a rose-colored pink, muted and soft. He sees that while his phone was going off last night unanswered, Phil had been trying to reach him.

_‘Did your cabbie eat you’_  
‘It’s like that episode of sherlock o.o don’t take any pills from him’  
‘Daaaaannn if you get murdered i’ll be whisked off to jail for sending you to your doom’  
‘Tuna will starve. she would die before eating a mouse….’ 

Dan feels like a teenager again. He wants to kick his feet up in the air and squeal like a fifteen-year-old girl would over Harry Styles. He wants to get up and pace around the flat to have an excuse for the palpable thumping against his ribcage. There are no follow up texts from Phil this morning, but that’s fine. Those four from last night are cute enough to send his brain into overdrive. 

_‘if i died and you were imprisoned, i would haunt your flat just to cross through dimensional planes and feed tuna. she deserves it.’_

To his surprise, the chat bubbles appear before he can even toss his phone down on the bed. He flicks his ringer on and off impatiently waiting for a reply.

_‘You wouldn’t haunt me?? I thought we were friends…’_

Friends. Dan snorts and looks towards the ceiling. It would be so easy to say something, imply that he sees them as capable of more than that. If it didn’t go over well, he could always shrug it off and deal with the awkwardness. When he starts to type, though, his fingers betray him.

_‘a real friend wouldn’t let me get murdered in the first place );’_

_‘Sorry Dan. Next time you should stay over and lower the risk :P’_

That strikes him in a funny way, like he’d been standing on a rug and someone had pulled it out from under him. This time he does hop off the bed to pace to the other side of his bedroom. The thud of footsteps is probably loud enough for Andi to hear, but it doesn’t matter. This is a life or death situation. 

_‘speaking of…’_

_‘Yeah?’_

_‘my flat mate is having their parents around tonight… do you think you could save me from an uncomfortable evening??’_

He waits, staring down at his own message until it brings moisture to his eyes that he blinks away. The lack of immediate response makes him think he’s majorly imposing on Phil, and the desire to take it back is creeping up, but there’s nothing to be done. The clinginess has been pushed to the forefront and it can’t be ignored. 

_‘I had actually planned on doing some photography work but if you want to join that could be fun! I could use a model for the day :P’_

That’s… unexpected - along with the implication that Dan could be anything other than horribly awkward in front of a camera. The thought makes him wince. But Phil is agreeing to see him again and that’s enough for him to swallow the doubt and hope that the model thing was only a joke. If it’s not though… he kind of looks like a mess. He looks at himself in the dirty mirror hanging on the wall, takes note of the darkness beneath his eyes and the mess his hair is in from tossing and turning and probably sweating throughout the night. A shower, then. Some fresh jeans and concealer could probably make him look like a brand-new person. 

The phone buzzes against his hand again. 

_‘Is that something you’d be up for? Totally okay to say no.’_

Dan bites the tip of his tongue, trying to take stock of how he feels. A bit anxious, sure, but also excited. As if maybe it won’t be all bad. He might fumble and pull a few embarrassing faces, but he’ll have Phil’s eyes on him the whole time. Ever since that Switch game he’s been thinking about how much of a rush it is to know that Phil is simply looking at him, how it makes his skin crawl in a good way. A very good way. 

_‘can i have time to not look like a sack of shit?’_

_‘I’m sure you don’t, but yeah! It’ll be a couple of hours. You can come over whenever and we’ll just leave from my place.’_

_‘see you then!!’_

_‘Yee!! x’_

Dan has a chuckle over the ‘yee,’ thinking about that stupid dinosaur meme, but then the tiny ‘x’ finally clicks in his brain and he falls silent. A big, stupid grin is still on his face, but he can’t bring himself to laugh it off. If it means something, he’s going to silently let it mean something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! big shoutout to anyone still reading this lol. things will start to pick up very soon so i am ,, excited for next week's chapter. hope you're all having a gr8 day!


	7. Chapter 7

It’s not that long before Phil hears a quick succession of knocks on his door, his head snapping up in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting Dan so soon, but he lets him in and tells him he can have a seat in the lounge before they head off. He hurries more then, disappearing into doors and halls and shoving things into an old backpack he keeps for photography things. His camera sits neatly at the top of the bag so that it doesn’t get squished by his props and water bottles and most likely unnecessary snacks. 

He stops in the bathroom to get a proper look at himself and swish some mouthwash around to get rid of the lingering taste of the bagel he had for breakfast. There’s nothing wrong with a minty mouth, and certainly no ulterior motive behind it at all. When he walks back to the lounge, his backpack is already starting to make his shoulders ache. 

Dan is sat with Tuna curled up contently in his lap. He turns and looks at Phil, and he’s got that expression of someone who can’t handle the levels of cuteness they’re up against. His deep brown eyes stare up in a gentle sort of plea. (Phil ignores the way that makes something not so innocent stir in his gut). 

“I can never leave this spot on your sofa. If she wakes up because of me, I’ll actually weep.” 

“I’m surprised she’s sleeping on you at all, usually she’s in the floor like a burden,” Phil replies. 

He looks over to the spot Tuna normally occupies, and the sun is hitting it in the way that draws her there in the first place, the rays of light softly illuminating the dust that floats about in the air. Dan follows his gaze, giving Tuna a gentle stroke against her fur. 

“It’s because I’m warm. A human space heater, if you will.” 

For some reason Phil feels his own face go hot, honestly a bit jealous of his ungrateful cat right now. He thinks it would be heavenly to be the one curled up in that lap for warmth. 

“How convenient. Tuna loves warm,” he says, adjusting the straps on his shoulders that feel close to digging into his skin. 

Maybe he packed a bit too much. There’s no time to throw anything out, though, because he has to get Dan off of his couch before he gets too attached to the idea of it. He walks towards them and gently shoos Tuna away, much to Dan’s protest. Her little orange legs - with white at the paws that look like socks - scamper quickly down the hall, to Phil’s bedroom. With his new friend gone, Dan stands up with a put-on scowl, shaking his head. 

“Blasphemous. She deserves better, she should be your model, not me.” 

He looks unreasonably good standing there, in a simple white T-shirt and the staple black jeans. Phil is beginning to realize that those are a commonality between the two of them; they both avoid blue jeans like the plague. But with that shirt, Phil thinks Dan would look good with blue ones. Just place him in any random field in England and he’d look like a devastatingly handsome 20th century farm hand. Phil’s aware of how weirdly his mind had drifted, but really, that’s not the strangest daydream he’s had about his newly made friend. He reckons he’d be smitten no matter the circumstances. 

This truly isn’t the time to dwell on it, though, not with the way he’d completely ignored what Dan said in favor of staring at him like a lunatic. He scrambles to think of what they had been talking about, blinking a couple of times while Dan looks back at him with a wrinkle of confusion between his brows. 

“I think you’ll be a great model,” he eventually gets out. 

His brain feels like a TV screen full of static, and he wonders if that’s what fancying someone is like. It’s been years since he last truly had it bad for someone, and those feelings had usually ended up being one-sided. This time it’s unclear. They’ve done plenty of could-be flirting and Dan had gone out of his way to spend time together today. 

Phil doesn’t think mates do that, not so quickly after knowing each other. 

Dan is smiling now, almost bashful. He takes a subtle step towards the door. 

“Should we head out, then?”

-

They end up at Kensington Gardens via a pleasant, quiet cab ride. It’s warmer today than it has been in weeks, despite the cooler winds that occasionally whip past them, sending brief shivers down Phil’s spine. He’s glad that he brought Dan here, as he looks genuinely happy to be out in the fresh air, surrounded by beautiful flowers and foliage. It smells like freshly mown grass, and it isn’t very crowded today. 

Dan is stood looking out towards the fountain, bordered by pink and red and purple flowers that are somehow in bloom, disregarding the previous bad weather. It might be magic, Phil supposes, or some secret royal fertilizer that keeps things alive and thriving all throughout the year. The sound of flowing water seems to blanket over the area with a sense of peace, a sense of calm hidden from the bustle of the city. 

Phil grabs his camera from his bag and tries to be secretive as he focuses the lens on Dan and snaps a photo. He looks long and lean in the full body shot, but also quiet and contemplative as he surveys the gardens. Some sixth sense must alert him about the camera, though, because he immediately turns and sputters out a surprised, indignant noise when he catches Phil red-handed. 

“You snek! I’m supposed to have some sort of warning!” 

Phil laughs and holds the camera behind his back, protecting it in case Dan tries to snatch it away. He makes no sudden moves, though, and only squints his eyes in distrust. 

“It’s only the back of your head! You looked natural and relaxed _because_ I was a snek.” 

“Let me see,” Dan requests, coming closer now. 

Phil fumbles with a few buttons to display the last photo taken. It’s nice, serene even. And some weird part of him is glad to have a picture of Dan now, like he’s meant to be on that screen looking soft and contemplative under the cloudy London sky. The word ‘muse’ flashes through his head briefly, but that makes him feel strange. Entitled, almost. He has no claim on Dan, they’ve only hung out a handful of times.

Maybe this is something he shouldn’t get used to so quickly. 

“It’s not bad. You’re off the hook this time.” 

“Shut up, I don’t think it could be bad, unless I get an under-chin angle or something.” 

Dan laughs and pushes his chin against his neck, trying to make himself look unattractive. It should put Phil off, but instead he’s enamored by the fact that Dan isn’t afraid to do something like that around him. He’s got like, four chin folds. Phil reaches out to poke at his neck on instinct, and Dan pulls away from the touch with half a shriek. It gathers some attention from a family going past them, a baby stroller being pushed by a concerned-looking man, shooting them a quick glance. They both notice and try to keep their laughter hushed. 

“Neck is off limits.” 

“Oh? Why?” 

“No reason,” Dan squints at him, once the sun peeks out from around a cloud and hits his eyes with an unusual brightness. 

There’s a split second in which Phil’s mouth falls open and he’s tempted to ask – is anything else off limits? Is he allowed to touch Dan, to brush arms with him or maybe link their fingers together as they walk? This garden has a naturally romantic air to it, as if it were designed for lovers or even potential ones. He closes his mouth, though, and slides the lens cover over his camera. 

“Let’s find a good place for photos.”

They try a few different spots, places that are elegant and properly photogenic, with greenery and fauna invading every inch of the landscape, but those are the places that are littered with people. Dan says over and over that this won’t work, he can’t do it here, because there’s too much of a crowd and he feels like he’s being watched. Phil listens to him and understands, but the crowds don’t bother him so much anymore. He’s at a point that if he’s behind a camera, it isn’t really himself that’s doing the work. It makes him invisible, only existing as a humanoid figure that’s being driven by the piece of technology in his hands. Dan is exposed, on the other hand, the target of curious eyes as others roam around the garden. They try a spot by the fountain, with Dan sitting at the edge of it, tiny purple blooms becoming a blur behind him. 

He looks particularly lovely in the warmth of the day, giving his brown curls sunlit highlights of gold. Phil instructs him to turn his chin just so, to focus his eyes on one of the benches in the distance. He follows along perfectly, and the picture turns out well. It’s not exactly what Phil wanted from today, though, so in a moment of brave stupidity he grabs Dan by the hand and leads him to somewhere he’d only just remembered existed. 

It’s a tunnel, of sorts, almost hidden away from the rest of the garden. 

In the summer as a child, Phil had visited here once with his family. It was one of those trips that made him think he hated London, as his parents had only wanted to visit the landmark, tourist-geared locations and do the most boring tours. That summer had been a hot one, and their tour guide was dull to his seven-year-old perspective, so he had spent most of the walk moping behind his mother. Kathryn had loved Kensington Gardens, of course she did, but Phil’s favorite part was the tunnel. The vine-like plants that wrap around the structural part of the tunnel were abundant that day, blocking out most of the sun and finally providing some shade, which eased Phil’s irritation. He had pulled on his mum’s hand, asking to stay there for a while, but the guide had moved on far too quickly, and his parents didn’t want to stray from their group. 

Now, at the beginning of spring, the tunnel is less grown out. There are more bare spaces, gaps in the vines and leaves that allow the sun to filter through, to expose the scenery of the garden through the holes of metal structure. It isn’t less pretty, however. Only different than Phil remembers. 

They enter through the beginning of the tunnel and Dan’s fingers are still loosely wrapped around his. Neither explicitly mention it, but when Phil powers his camera on again, their hands fall apart and Dan looks at him, a hint of meaning in the stare. It makes him bristle, like the hair on the back of his neck is standing straight up - like a burst of electricity has pervaded the air between them. And then he’s thinking of Dan’s neck, the way a simple touch had made him startle, the way that his cheeks had been tinged pink in the minutes afterwards. The urge to do something, anything at all, is maddening. They’re all alone in the tunnel, if you can even call it ‘alone’ when the lack of foliage leaves the outside world a perfect window to see inside. It’s quieter here, too, as the sound of running water is dimmed down to a low hum. 

Dan looks away, down the expanse of metal wiring and beams of sunlight hitting the stone path beneath them. 

“You want a picture of me here?” 

Phil nods, not trusting the tightness of his vocal chords. He clears his throat once, and gestures vaguely to a spot further down. 

“Yeah, just. Act natural. Like I’m not here.” 

“Unlikely.” 

That answer only amplifies the growing itch under his skin, but he doesn’t make any moves to show it. Dan takes a couple stiff steps forward, back turned to the camera. His white T-shirt is a thin material, and Phil can see the soft ridges of his shoulder blades move as his arms move. The back of his head and up around the sides is shaved shorter than the rest of his hair, meaning the whole expanse of his neck appears lean and gorgeous and Phil doesn’t know when it got to… this. He doesn’t know when a passing thought of ‘pretty’ transformed into this all-consuming _thing_ , strong enough to knock the breath out of him. 

It isn’t just hormones, or loneliness; it’s embedded in the knowledge that this is Dan, a man he’s been enamored with since day one. His hands are shaky when he presses down on the camera’s button, and if Dan hears the soft clicking noise it makes, he doesn’t show it. That one will probably turn out bad anyways. He tries a couple more as Dan continues slowly walking around, traveling in circles around him to get different directions of light and shadows as they fall against his skin. 

After a while he can tell that Dan is getting antsy, feeling watched, even though it’s only the two of them. He lowers the camera and sighs. 

“Can we do a couple over at the bench? We can be done, then.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

The bench is nice because it’s painted white but still has that fancy, ornate design that will compliment the other photos. Phil explains a pose, one that requires Dan to be sort-of leaning against the arm of it, with one foot on the seat so that his knee is bent. The other leg positioned naturally with his foot on the ground. 

“Is this a joke about gays not being able to sit properly?” Dan asks. 

It catches Phil off guard, and he makes a half-laughing, half-choking sound. It does reassure him, though, that he hasn’t read every sign wrong. 

“Shut up,” he says, slightly nudging Dan’s shoe with his own to get his leg into a more casual position. Something about it is still awkward, and he only realizes what when Dan flails his arms about in confusion. 

“And what am I meant to do with these noodle-fucks?” 

“Um, here,” he says uselessly, making a horribly incoherent gesture. 

Dan only stares at him, not comprehending anything. Embarrassed, Phil picks up one of Dan’s hands and rests his forearm on the back of the bench, even going as far to manually curl Dan’s fingers around the edge of it. The nails are painted the softest shade of pink, and it’s more fitting than any other color could be. He doesn’t know what to do with the other arm, admittedly, so he figures it can relax either on his leg or the space on the bench seat near his leg. 

Instead of voicing this like a sane, normal person would do, he decides he should manually pose this arm as well. He guides it to Dan’s leg, palm flat against the black jeans, fingers slightly splayed out. Phil’s own fingers manage to brush against his thigh, which he almost apologizes for. What stops him is the quietest intake of breath; a gasp? The noise startles him into snapping his head up to look at Dan, who’s already staring at him like an animal caught in headlights, as if he’s already facing something inevitable and immediate, a question that’s about to be answered. 

It’s hard to say which one of them answers it first, but the next thing Phil registers is the warmth of a mouth pressed tightly against his own. It should be a shock but it’s not, it’s weirdly natural and all he thinks is that he wants to do this for the rest of his life. He also thinks, in the back of his mind, that Dan just messed up the stupid pose, but that only makes him laugh. He laughs right against Dan’s lips, almost smiling too hard to kiss properly. 

In the minimal space between them he imagines their bated breaths colliding and mixing together until the air is uniform. His carbon dioxide and Dan’s carbon dioxide politely sliding past each other. The angle is awkward, with Phil standing and bent over, compensating for their current height difference. Dan pulls on his arm, breaking the kiss momentarily because apparently Phil can’t understand basic cues. 

“Sit,” he’s instructed. 

Once he’s sat on the bench and the distance is lessened, it feels urgent that he doesn’t let this slip away. There are freckles on the bridge of Dan’s nose, the high points of his cheeks. 

“I like you.” 

He knows it’s not going to be a surprise, it should be bloody obvious with the way things have been going between them, but Dan’s face lights up like a child on Christmas morning. Part of Phil wants to raise his camera and capture it forever. It feels hard to breathe. He has, however, decided that breathing is overrated and dares to lean in and press their mouths together again – it’s something soft and chaste, and he has time to process Dan’s chapped lips, the rhythm he moves his mouth in. Phil matches it the best he can, given that he’s wildly out of practice. 

The camera in his hands is hindering him from doing very tempting things, like holding Dan’s face or playing with that fun little curl that falls onto his forehead like a pig’s tail. 

Next time, he’ll do that. There’s no point in worrying about the probability of a next time. This alone is enough to make it worth getting his hopes up – Dan allows his teeth to gently scrape against Phil’s bottom lip and the shiver that it brings is worth anything at all. But then he’s pulling away, taking some of that with him as he goes. 

“Hi.” 

His eyes are wells; deep and dark, impossible to tell what’s at the bottom of them. Phil clears his throat, mentally wills his voice box to function again. 

“Was that okay?” He asks. 

“Shut up,” Dan says; the words are muffled by his accompanying surprised laughter. “It was okay. If you aren’t like, regretting it.” 

“No, no,” Phil says, shaking his head. “Not doing that.” 

Dan must find something awfully funny, because he can’t get rid of that squinty-eyed, ready to burst out in laughter expression. It’s unnerving. 

Phil brings his hands up to hide his own face to peek between his fingers, as if seeing Dan through the slits will make it less mortifying when the other shoe drops. 

“What? What’s funny?” 

“Nothing. You said you like me.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Phil, no. I like you too.” 

“Then why are you laughing?” 

And there the warmth comes flooding back, with something as simple as Dan’s lips ghosting across his cheek; whisper-soft. He finds that the patch of skin is immediately a few degrees higher in temperature. 

“I’m happy.”


	8. Chapter 8

Phil’s couch is comfortable, with cushions that sink down so far that Dan’s legs stretch out ahead of him instead of being awkwardly bent up against his ribcage. 

He politely ignores the abundance of orange cat hairs that cling to the surface (and his jeans) and takes note of all the half-alive plants potted just beneath the open window. It’s relatively quiet in the flat compared to the other times he’s been here, and the faint sound of Phil rummaging through the fridge is more familiar than it has a right to be. 

“Ribena?” Phil calls out. 

At the sound of his voice, four little white feet bound across the floor and Dan only catches sight of Tuna’s tail as she disappears around the corner to the kitchen. 

“Yes, please!” 

Dan quietly gets up from the couch and walks over to the window, wisps of wind gliding against his arms and sending goosebumps to rise in protest. He looks down at the streets below, the view that Phil’s flat has. It’s not the prettiest view in the world but it’s better than the brick wall that he stares at back home. Across the road is a small café, the type that probably knows all their patrons by name, which also has plants in the windows. He wonders if Phil was inspired by their choice in décor – and then he’s wondering about Phil in general, and how the hell today happened. 

It all seems too fast. They bump into each other a handful of times, grab lunch, play a game or two and what? Just like that, they’re snogging in Kensington Gardens? 

It’s messing with his brain; not quite a spiral so soon, but a potential one in the making. He had been the one to initiate the whole thing, though. Dan was the one who snapped, the one who practically pulled Phil down onto the bench and coerced him into continuing. 

No, no. That’s not true. 

If he closes his eyes for half a second it all plays back - a movie scene, looping over itself until he can understand. Phil said, “I like you,” clear as day. It was reciprocated. This isn’t a fantasy that Dan has somehow manifested into reality, clinging onto false hope that he’ll be less alone from now on. It is new, though, and possibly fragile. He can’t go around ruining it with his pessimism and rumination. 

Dan kneels to look at the plant sitting at his feet; it’s this mid-sized, droopy thing with holes throughout the big heart-shaped leaves. He reaches out to touch one, immediately notes that everything is far too dry for this thing to be green. Poor Phil. At least his cat isn’t so neglected. 

“I see you’ve met Penelope.” 

Dan’s hand flies up to his chest and he inhales sharply, jumping back to his feet. He shoots Phil a dirty look, or at least a mildly displeased one, which is all he can manage. 

“More like Penelo-please help me, I’m dying of dehydration.” 

“Fine, then she gets your Ribena instead.” 

Phil holds the glass up above his shoulder, like he’s trying to keep it out of Dan’s reach. In retaliation, Dan only stares at him blankly. 

“I’m calling Childline for your plants.” 

“It’s nutritious!” 

Before he can disagree, the glass is being passed over to him and he takes it with squinted eyes, distrusting. He takes a sip, never breaking the eye contact, and imagines Penelope sighing in relief now that the threat of a sugary drink being poured over her is gone. They both return to the sofa, collapsing into its wonderful marshmallowy cushions. Phil makes no move to turn the television on or pull up YouTube videos on his laptop; he only sips on his drink, eyes moving back and forth as if he doesn’t know whether he wants to make eye contact. That induces some anxiety, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to grab Dan by the hand and make any heart-shattering retractions of what he said earlier. 

He does open his mouth to say _something_ , however, and in an unearned panic Dan scrambles to change the nonexistent topic. 

“What kind of plant is it?” 

“Oh. She’s a Swiss cheese plant. The real name is Monstera Deliciosa, though, which sounds way cooler. It’s supposed to get much bigger than that.” 

“Maybe, if you water the poor thing.” 

“I’ll water your mum,” Phil says. 

He acts like it’s a comeback to be proud of, making Dan chuckle against the rim of his glass. He’s nothing if not immature (and a bit of a drama queen), so he swings his legs around and lets his ankles rest on Phil’s unsuspecting lap. The touch is surprisingly grounding. 

“Okay, Lester, stop talking about making my mum wet.” 

He’s delighted when this pulls the appropriate reaction, an unbelieving sputter and two rosy spots blooming onto Phil’s pale cheeks. He’s one shade of red away from mortified - it’s brilliant. 

“You’re awful. If I ever meet your mum now I won’t be able to look her in the eyes.” 

“And now you want to meet my mum already. Steady on, mate, we’ve only just snogged.” 

It might have been too sudden, too fresh of a topic to bring up, but thankfully Phil only rolls his eyes. He’s not great at pretending to be exasperated, especially when his lips are still stretched wide into a grin. Dan moves to get more comfortable, propping his feet up on the sofa arm on the side that Phil is sat on. His calves are rested lightly on Phil’s thighs, and he takes up the length of the entire couch. It’s about the fiftieth time today he’s been made hyper-aware of how lanky his body is. He stares down at right foot, twisting it outwards so that his ankle pops. 

It should have been satisfying given that he’s been wearing uncomfortable shoes all day, but instead it unsettles him. His brain is playing a quiet loop in the background of ‘ _again again again again_ ,’ so he does it again. 

Phil doesn’t notice, too busy looking lost after the snogging comment. Eventually he clears his throat, bringing Dan back to the present. 

“Should we talk about that?” 

“I think we said what we needed to say. Unless you have something to add?” 

Pop, pop, pop. He does three quieter ones, barely moving his foot, but he can tell that the motion means his calf muscle is flexing atop Phil’s leg each time. That’s got to be annoying. He wills himself to stop, dragging his gaze up to look at the man he’s meant to be charming. The one he needs to convince that he’s worth the effort or the energy it takes to put up with someone like this.

_’Like what?’_ his brain supplies, and he shoves it far down, as it sounds too much like the voice of his therapist, berating him for being so self-criticizing. 

“I guess I just have a few questions?” Phil phrases it as an inquiry, voice tilted high on the last word. 

“Sure.” 

“So, we both like each other.” 

“That’s not a question.” 

“Shut up, rat. It was leading to one.” 

“Continue,” Dan laughs, weird compulsion out of his mind for now. 

“Does that mean I’m allowed to kiss you and stuff?” 

It should be awkward, to have this conversation with someone he hasn’t known very long, to see the obvious shyness seeping through said person’s words because they’re embarrassed to have to ask. For some reason though, Dan only feels endeared. Like a bloody old-timed sap, keen on each opportunity to see his fair maiden’s cheek alight with a blush. He thinks back on that moment at the Gardens, the surge of want that had driven him to pull Phil down on the bench and finally make a move on him. He’s sure he feels his lips tingle. 

“Yes, you’re allowed to kiss me. And stuff.” 

“Starting now?” Phil asks, less nervous – pale blue eyes shimmering in mirth. 

Dan laughs and sits up, hurrying to set both of their Ribena glasses down on the coffee table and ignoring how the sudden movement makes his head feel featherlight. Some of Phil’s drink splashes onto the wood, being almost full still. Dan disregards it in favor of turning back around and shuffling closer to Phil. He’s tempted to climb right up onto his lap but that seems recklessly bold. Instead, he sits close enough for their legs to touch and leans in until he nearly goes cross-eyed, heart thumping desperately as if attempting escape from its pericardium. 

He brings a hand up to rest on Phil’s cheek. Long, exploratory fingers creeping up slowly to brush through short sideburns and farther back, weaving around jet black strands of hair. Dan wants to embody his best attempt at smooth and suave, Casanova wannabe, but it’s difficult in this moment. Suddenly he’s the blushing maiden - unsure of how to bridge the gap between them, trapped in a snapshot. 

“You’re pretty,” he says dumbly. Tongue too big for his already-big mouth. 

Phil laughs and the air is warm on his skin. 

“I’m going to kiss you now.” 

“Okay.” 

It’s as good as the last time, only an hour or so in between, but he’d somehow forgotten already how it takes his breath away. This time he’s more prepared. He allows Phil to take the reins, moving pliantly as his lips get tugged around by an increasingly insistent mouth, aided by the occasional glide of teeth that makes his legs go weak even while he’s sat down. It goes on for a questionable amount of time, hands roaming freely about biceps and hair and shoulder blades. Dan starts to shift his weight to bring them closer when Phil abruptly pulls back, staring him down with wide eyes and raw lips. 

It throws him off center and he’s forced to recalibrate, leaning back with a slow exhale. 

“Damn.” 

“Yeah.” 

“We need to do more of that later,” Dan says. 

“Why later?” 

Dan scrambles to think of something, willing himself not to give away that he’s already far too gone, that he’s afraid of not wanting to stop. Phil is damn near addictive; he has been ever since he came into the gallery that day. 

“Because I saw that you have Halo 3 and I want to kick your ass at it.” 

Nice save. 

“You’re so competitive,” Phil pouts. 

“Can we, though?” 

“I guess. Just one more.” 

Phil leans in and he takes the hint, tilting his head for one more lingering kiss. Dan closes his eyes to chill out the thumping against his ribcage, sharp and sweet. It doesn’t work. As they break away, Phil trails his fingers down his neck and Dan shivers, shoulders tensing at the teasing touch. He’d have to be blind not to realize the effect it had. 

Nonetheless, Phil only clamps his teeth down on his own lip and gets off the sofa, going to set up the Xbox so they can play. Dan watches as he squats down to insert the disc and find two controllers, tries not to stare at the way Phil’s too-tight jeans stretch around his ass. That might be too much for their first day of doing… whatever this is. Liking each other. 

That sounds so juvenile, so much less raw than the way Dan’s nerves feel (buzzing beneath his skin, exposed and reactive). What else could he call it though, even in his own head where things often get jumbled and misinterpreted? He’d rather die than bring up the ‘what are we’ question already, so he resigns himself to possible weeks of second-guessing and fumbling through interactions. 

“I’m picking the first map,” Phil says. 

He rises back up, tossing Dan a controller that he only barely catches. It seems to have teeth marks embedded into the rubber bits, teeth marks that look decidedly human and not the work of a certain cat. 

The Halo matches go by in a blur marked only by shouts and crude banter, by hesitant bumping of shoulders and knees and the thickness of the air that envelops them in this warm, new thing. When the sun starts to set, they abandon their game and raid Phil’s kitchen for food, scarfing down whatever they could quickly throw together. 

Once satisfied and full, Dan drags Phil in for a kiss next to the sink. It doesn’t even matter that their breath tastes of stale crisps because it still makes his stomach swoop down low. He intentionally pecks the corner of Phil’s lips and before it can be played off as a mistake, he plants another one farther down, until he’s tasting the skin of his arched neck. 

“No fair,” Phil huffs. 

He doesn’t seem too put out, though, given the way his fingers are gripping on tightly to Dan’s hips. Everything about it is inebriating: the sounds Phil makes, the give of his body as he’s easily backed up against the kitchen counter, the steady hand threaded through the shorter hair on the back of Dan’s head. This goes on for an absurd amount of time, but it also exists outside of the constraints of time. Dan can only tell that he’s been at it for a while when his lips have gone numb and he’s left a few scattered out bruises, blooming in shades of pink and red. He pulls away and the sight brings him back to reality, causing a flush of embarrassment to wrap him up in its grasp. It squeezes at his abdomen like a stress ball. 

Isn’t there an ounce of self-control in his entire body? 

“Sorry.” 

Phil blinks back at him and hums, looking dazed. 

“For what?” 

“Attacking your neck like some kind of feral dog?” 

“Oh. Don’t be.” 

The dazed expression morphs into one resembling a smile, tinged with something bashful and sweet. It kind of melts Dan’s heart, so he has to look down at the tiled floor instead. 

“It wasn’t awful, then?”

“God. No.” 

“You seem to only be capable of single syllable words, Philly.” 

“Shut up,” Phil laughs, bringing his palm up to smooth it over the splashes of color darkening on his pale skin. 

“Anyways, um. What do you want to do now? You think your mate’s parents are still around?” 

Dan takes a step back, realizing he’s very much in Phil’s personal space and it isn’t helping him give a coherent answer. His phone is in his back pocket, so he fumbles for a second, grabbing it and bringing the screen to life. There’s a lack of texts from Andi. 

“I dunno. It’s quite late, let me see.” 

_‘yo. ur parents left yet? (pls say no)’_  
_‘They’re gone but im guessing things are going well??? If you’re getting some, remember the details pls.’_  
_‘i will eviscerate you.’_  
_‘Love you too!’_

Dan gnaws on the inside of his cheek, internally debating. He doesn’t want to go home, but he can’t stay here either. What happens if Phil really asks him to stay the night, like he suggested over text last time? He hasn’t slept in a bed that isn’t his own in ages. The nightly rituals don’t translate very smoothly between houses; the paranoia that drives him to flip a switch on and off isn’t resolved when he’s in an unfamiliar place. He can’t be sure how Phil’s flat would settle in the weak parts of his brain, little things no one else would notice taunting him and inviting pointless scrutinizing. 

Looking past Phil’s shoulder, he eyes up the stovetop. The knobs are different than the ones he’s used to staring down. They aren’t perfectly lined up with the word ‘off,’ just slightly off-center. It’s the farthest thing from a big deal, but he digs his fingernails into his palm to make his brain shut up. 

“Their parents are gone. I should probably, you know. Head out. Get out of your hair.” 

“Oh. Okay. I’ll be…seeing you soon?” 

Phil’s forehead is lined with what could be disappointment, and it makes Dan want to swallow his words back up. He can’t do that, though, not until he gets his shit under control. There’s no reason to unload all his problems onto Phil on their first day of…this. He wants to put a word to it so badly. Wordless things are slippery and lithe and fleeting. Needing the sensation of _grounded_ , he goes forward again and wraps Phil up in a hug. 

He isn’t the hugging type, but it does fix some frayed nerves, smooths them out into something manageable. 

“As soon as you want.” 

A brief kiss is pressed into his hair, and he chuckles at the visual of Phil getting a mouthful of curls. It’s such a strange thing to be happy but not free from the threat of spiraling. He’ll take whatever sunshine the universe seems intent on giving him right now, if it means he gets to pocket this warmth and use it tonight when everything is filtered through a grey lens. 

“Thanks for being my model today.” 

“Thanks for getting my good angles. A difficult feat.” 

“Whatever. You’ve got, like, the best face.” 

“I don’t want to stop hugging you.” 

Phil squeezes him around the middle and their chests pressed tight together is enough to make the sappiness almost bearable. He thinks he might’ve heard Phil mumble something like ‘then don’t’ – either way, he lingers there for a few minutes more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey pals hope your friday is going swell im very caffeinated and there's a bee in my room and this is important info. and no im not going to stop giving dan my own weird personal compulsions it's kind of therapeutic tbh


	9. Chapter 9

Standing behind a cash register for hours at a time is starting to slowly morph into what could be purgatory. Old women with expired coupons. Kids running through aisles and opening sweets before they’ve been paid for. An ache that starts in his feet and creeps up his legs and spine. 

Phil jams his finger against the button that makes the cash drawer pop open and daydreams about renewing his resume to apply to anywhere else in the world. He has the mindfulness to ask the woman at the till about her day, but the words fall flat. There’s no room in his brain for this. She takes her bags and leaves, and the cycle starts again. 

When he gets home that evening, he goes straight to his computer to edit. It may be an excuse to stare at photos of Dan for a prolonged period, but who’s to say, really? There’s a Dan-shaped hole in his heart, currently, as he hasn’t gotten so much as a text back in several days. 

At first it had been fine; even clingy, maybe, of him to expect a dramatic shift in their dynamic after a couple of kisses. And then one or two days melted into three or four. It’s now day five, and there hasn’t been a peep from him. It’s made him feel kind of pathetic, in all honesty. Any attempts to reach Dan have been met with radio silence. It’s only him and his string of texts progressively being drained of dignity, withering away into poorly feigned nonchalance. The last shred of optimism in his brain is telling him that Dan is probably busy, that he isn’t being ‘ghosted,’ or whatever the kids are calling it now. So, he edits. 

There isn’t much to fix when it comes to Dan, he’s perpetually pretty from all angles and looks phenomenal against the vivid explosions of red petals in the background. He only plays around with the technical stuff, exposure and contrast and that sort of thing. Crops out a few bystanders that had somehow gotten into the shot. Mourns the fact that there’s no bench photo due to their subsequent PDA. Thinks about the bench, about Dan. There’s a tug in his gut every time he remembers their hug in his kitchen, the fading bruises that barely get covered by his work shirt. It’s completely melodramatic and he knows it. 

In a short amount of time he’s doing more thinking than editing, and it becomes futile to continue. Instead he gets up and stretches, trying to rid himself of the tension that has made him taut from his jaw to his calves. The rest of the night is a bland routine: feeding Tuna and cleaning her litter box, having a bowl of cereal over his kitchen sink, and having a quick wank that would have been terribly sad if not for recent memories flooding his mind and refusing to budge. He even calls his mum (before the wank, he’s not a psychopath) and talks to her about the show they’ve been watching separately but together. All in all, a typical night. 

The next morning is also typical, until he scrolls through Facebook and sees Dan’s name on his newsfeed. It’s a status update, with his signature lowercase typing style cast across   
the phone screen. Phil’s heart skips a beat.

_Daniel Howell: we might all be meat suits driven by clumps of grey and white matter but i think my clump is the most self-sabotaging_

Isn’t that uplifting? Phil debates commenting something funny, in hopes of lightening the somber tone, but it’s too risky to do it where Dan’s real-life friends and family could see. He opens Facebook messenger instead and tries not to feel nostalgic about their subtle flirting before they had exchanged numbers. Could he be nostalgic over that when now they’re here, not speaking for days? It crosses his mind that the ‘self-sabotaging’ bit could be about that. 

Is it bad if he hopes so? At least there would be a reason, then. 

_‘Saw your status. It took me a minute to remember grey and white matter is a brain thing. If your brain is being bad we can talk about it. Or about anything else (except horses)’_   
_‘hi’_   
_‘why not horses lmao’_

Phil thinks that it might be minimally pathetic to count those two curt replies as a win, but after five whole days it sends a bout of giddiness through his bones. 

_‘They’re big and scary and I don’t trust their hooves.’_

Dan sends him an emoji of a horse’s face and he quickly sends back a mildly terrified emoji in response. That soon devolves into them competing to see who can find the most obscure ones, like the petri dish or the spool of thread. All the good options have been exhausted when Dan breaks the chain with an actual message.

_‘sorry for not answering you before. it’s been weird. but i did miss talking to you’_   
_‘I missed you too, if you couldn’t tell. Sorry if I spammed you’_   
_‘it’s okay. i felt bad for not responding but i read everything’_

Phil wants so badly to ask why Dan wasn’t responding to him, but he doesn’t want to be so transparently needy. He’s fine with this, with having an apology and the knowledge that at least his texts were read at all. It doesn’t soothe the itch beneath his skin begging him to be with Dan in person, though. Just to look at him would bring some sort of relief. 

_‘Are you at the gallery today?’_   
_‘yep. surprise surprise im in the storage to sneak text’_   
_‘Would it be weird if I came to see you?’_   
_‘that would be good. we’ve got this cool set of photos by some hot guy i think you’d want to check out’_

It’s surreal to see on the screen, the mere suggestion that Dan could view him as anything above average. He hopes the illusion doesn’t shatter as they spend more time together. 

_‘Really? I hear they keep the best art in the storage closet.’_   
_‘fuck off and come see me. im only here for another hour’_

So approximately twenty minutes later, Phil is on the same street as the art gallery. He tries to walk as quickly as his limbs will carry him so that he has time to stop and get Dan a coffee, an offering that might say something like: hey I really like you and I’m sorry something is wrong but here’s some caffeination feel better please. He’s in the mood for sugar so he gets himself a horribly ill-advised Frappuccino, but orders Dan a caramel macchiato as an homage to last time. He speed-walks the rest of the way and pushes the big doors open with his whole body, having learned his lesson about showing the world how weak his arms are. 

It’s quiet inside, and even that might be an understatement. Phil turns to the desk, and despite his best efforts he knows his expression falls instantly. Leah is sat there with a few sheets of paper strewn about the surface, reading something intently. She doesn’t even glance up at the sound of the door opening, which is weird. Phil considers leaving before he’s forced into socializing, but he told Dan he would be here. It would be really awkward if he’s being stood up. 

“Hey, Leah.” 

Her head snaps up as if she’s being brought back into reality. Her blonde hair has fallen in strands into her face and there’s a sort of tiredness radiating from her expression – brows drawn together, usually bright eyes lacking their shine. 

“Oh. Hello. I take it you’re here for Dan?” 

“If that’s alright,” Phil all but squeaks. 

It feels like he’s not supposed to be here, not welcome to come and go as he pleases just to pester and distract Leah’s only worker. That would be reasonable, for her to tell him to leave. She hasn’t been that way before, though. Her usual laid-back demeanor is only present in the form of apathy today. 

“He’s in my office until things settle down. Be easy on him, alright?” 

And that only brings more confusion. Until what settles down? Phil can’t pry, though, fearful of appearing out of the loop and having Leah take the words back. He nods at her and offers a tight smile of thanks before wandering back to the main office. 

There’s a small window on the door, and through it he sees Dan first. Dan sat rigidly, leaning forward, shoulders raised high and taut, fingers tapping incessantly at the desktop in a repetitive pattern. Dan with eyes downcast, not visible, but mouth moving as if he’s talking to himself. Despite all of this he seems mostly okay, not in major distress like Leah had suggested. Phil opens the door and fixes a smile onto his face. 

“Coffee time,” he says brightly, setting the two drinks down on the desk. 

Dan looks up at him and his mouth quirks up, right before he goes back to tapping. Now that Phil is closer, he can understand the rhythm of it. One, two, three. One, two, three. 

“I, um. Brought you a macchiato again. Hope that’s alright.” 

The fingers keep tapping, if not the slightest bit harder than before. As if in frustration. Dan does the movement in triples twice more, and then abruptly stops. His eyes shoot up to Phil’s and he hesitantly reaches out to take the coffee, those same fingers wrapping around the hot cup. His nails are shorter now and no longer pink, only bare. These minute observations are the only things keeping Phil from saying something stupid, being impolite. He takes a drink from his own straw, the sugary syrup coating his tongue too thickly. 

“Thanks. You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

“I would’ve asked you out for some after you’re done here, but I thought you might have plans.” 

Dan gives a vague shrug and messes about with some things on the desk, moving pens and stacking papers, seemingly doing anything in his power to avoid eye contact. It doesn’t settle well with Phil, nor does the guilt that follows that sentiment. This isn’t a personal thing, he reminds himself. It’s a brain thing. A bad week. There’s more going on in Dan’s life than his presence. He does want to ask, though, so badly, why it had been a bad week. The only thing stopping him is Dan’s refusal to acknowledge the radio silence that taunts Phil even now, sat right in front of him and being forced to watch his face fall into a grimace. 

“I don’t have plans after work, per se, but if you wanted to hang out, I had a tiny obligation this evening.” 

“Oh, what is it?” 

“Andi is having a mate over and the three of us were going to play video games. You’re welcome to join us, though.” 

Dan is finally, properly looking at him, and his face is kind. Brown eyes gently searching, peeling back layer upon layer of Phil’s doubts and insecurities. Peeling away until all that’s left is fleshy bits and yielding bone, maybe even his heart exposed and open in the middle of his ribs. It’s been five days; he’s allowed to be dramatic. 

“I’d like that. I’ve missed having my ass handed to me in every single game that I own,” he jokes. 

Dan laughs in the way that brings forth the wrinkles around his eyes. 

“Yeah, well. I just missed your ass.” 

“Actually, I’m uninviting myself. You’re not allowed to say that.”

They spend the next twenty minutes sat in Leah’s office, talking and catching up, but constantly skirting around conversation that could go deeper than what anime they’ve been binge-watching. And as much as Phil is glad that things are inching towards normal again, he can’t help but to think that maybe they’ll never progress past this. He knows a lot about Dan: about his hobbies, his interests, the ways he expresses himself. Any time he tries to push any farther, though, walls shoot up on instinct, and then there’s a choppy period in which neither of them know how to continue. 

When it’s three o’clock on the dot, Dan hops up from his seat. 

“Thank God. Let’s get out of here.”

Phil follows half a step behind him, unable to keep any distance now that the excitement of spending a good amount of time together is drawing him to the man like a magnet. Dan says he needs to grab his coat out of storage and beckons Phil to join him, doing his discreet little flipping of the light switch that he still thinks Phil hasn’t noticed. It’s always in threes, always rushed as if he’s embarrassed. Neither of them ever mentions it. 

He wonders if Dan knows that he knows. After the desk incident earlier, it feels like an elephant in the room – harmless, but huge. 

Dan grabs his coat and shrugs it on, the puffy black vastness of it swallowing up his frame. It’s one of those kinds that Phil doesn’t understand, but someone with any vague idea about fashion could effortlessly pull off. 

“You look like an emo Michelin Man,” he says. 

“Fuck right off. And come here, help me with the zip, it’s fucking stuck or something.” 

The zipper does appear to be stuck, given the way Dan is struggling to get it to move up or down, his hand tugging at it so harshly that it might break. Phil rushes over to push his hand out of the way, replacing it with his own. 

“It's not even that cold outside. Just a little windy.” 

“It’s about the aesthetic.” 

"Your aesthetic might be compromised, it’s very stubborn.” '

Phil can’t get the stupid zipper to budge an inch, so he gives up. The next thing he registers is both of his wrists being caught in a firm grasp, Dan’s big hands wrapped around them. Embarrassingly enough, it makes him inhale sharply, the noise like a whistle. Something like this shouldn’t send his heart rate skyrocketing. The cramped storage room, the way his wrists are almost restrained, the suddenly intense look in Dan’s eyes as he just moves Phil’s hands to wrap around his waist. He lets go as Phil catches on, keeping his arms loosely around Dan in a half-hearted hug. 

“Sorry for spooking you,” Dan laughs. 

“I’m not spooked,” Phil lies, ignoring how his head is still spinning from the sudden change in pace. 

He takes the hint and leans in to kiss Dan. It’s the kind of thing he could do all day, never worrying about obligations or work or anything else. This is the kind of kiss that makes his thoughts spiral into more, rough and sweet and full of repressed urges from the days they’ve been apart. Slowly but surely their feet move backwards in sync until Dan’s back is flat against the wall, cushioned by his stupid gigantic coat stopping Phil from truly feeling the contours of his body. This is fine, though. It’s much more than fine when he bites Dan’s lip and there’s a stuttered gasp in response, grabby fingers moving frantically against his arms and chest. Dan is so reactive when it comes to this, Phil is learning. He gets rewarded for doing something good with the most pleased little hums and sighs, noises that drive some primal part of his brain to want to push and prod and see what else it can get. 

What else can he get? It’s a selfish enough question, but nonetheless on his mind. 

These thoughts must be running too rampant, because Dan parts from him like he could hear them all aloud. His usually golden eyes have taken on some murky darkness to them, or maybe it’s only the dimness of the lights in here. Either way, it sends chills down Phil’s spine. 

“Fuck,” Dan laughs humorlessly, tilting his head back against the wall. 

The aforementioned primal part of Phil’s brain easily focuses in on Dan’s neck, alight with inspiration. He closes in on it, lips parted upon impact, tongue catching the vague saltiness of skin. His mouth moves without permission, skimming over Dan’s Adam’s apple and then farther down. It’s obvious why he hadn’t previously been allowed to even touch this part of Dan, given the way he’s taken to outright squirming at the sensation, his big hands squeezing harshly at Phil’s hips. 

“You really like that, don’t you?” Phil muses. 

He thinks of his own fading bruises hidden beneath his shirt and wonders just how much more intense this is for Dan than it had been for him. It had felt good for Phil, but he hadn’t been nearly as enthusiastic as this. Dan doesn’t answer, only digs his blunt fingernails into Phil’s love handles with an embarrassed huff of breath. Eventually things start to get a bit sloppy, less finessed and less aware that they’re literally in Dan’s place of work, one closed door away from his boss. None of that really clicks in Phil’s brain, though, until he gets a sudden rush of boldness and allows some teeth to slip into the mix. One gentle bite down onto Dan’s neck makes him do this weird, half-moan and half-yelp, one of his arms flying away from Phil’s hip and out to his side. 

It’s like dominos from there. 

His hand hits a metal shelf pushed up against the wall and it moves, because the stupid thing is on wheels, Phil realizes during the shift in events. Suddenly they’re both stuck watching in mortification as it rolls into a wooden pedestal and sends a ceramic pot sat on it tumbling to the floor. It shatters instantly, shards of it scattered about the floor in clunky, sad brown pieces. 

Phil notices that his whole body has gone tense, both with the shock of the loud noise and the shock of how carried away they had gotten. His face is on fire, mouth open but brain terribly speechless. They’re going to get in so much trouble for that! 

Dan gently pushes past him, not saying a word, and grabs a broom from the corner. 

“There’s no way Leah didn’t hear that. I’ll take the blame for it. I’ll pay for it,” the words spew out of Phil’s mouth at rapid speed, terrified that all of this is going to drag Dan back into whatever had him upset before. 

But he laughs. A loud and frenzied laugh, sure, but it’s not an entirely unhappy one. 

“Shush. Just hold this dust pan for me.”

Phil does, ignoring how his hands are still shaking from all the commotion. Dan sweeps up all the shards and puts the broom away, eyes glinting with something mischievous. 

“Listen. I’ll deal with this later. That’s been in here for ages, something an artist never came back for or whatever. But I’m not looking Lee in the eyes right now because she one-hundred percent knows we were being horny little shits.” 

Phil wants to object to that last notion, no matter how accurate it may be, but he’s cut off before he can even begin to speak. 

“So, when I open this door, we’re going to run for it. I don’t care how stupid we look. She already knows I’m a dumbass and I’ll tell her I made you run, too.” 

“I can’t even begin to explain how bad of idea that is.” 

“It’s a great idea. And if you ever want to come within five hundred feet of my neck again, you’ll do this for me.” 

Despite the spike of anxiety hitting Phil square in the chest, he nods. Damn Dan and his stupid sex appeal, making him make a fool of himself. 

They listen at the door to see if Leah had decided to investigate the noise, but there’s no sound of heels clacking against the floor. Dan has a hand poised readily at the door knob, but he doesn’t even relent in this urgent time, using his other hand to flip the switch rapidly a few times, ultimately leaving the lights turned off. The sudden blanket of darkness makes Phil brave enough to reach down and curl his fingers around Dan’s wrist, planning to stick right by him as the make their escape. 

“Count of three,” Dan says, twisting the knob. 

Phil wants to say, ‘of course it is,’ but even that joke feels like a risky move. He tightens his grip. Dan gives them the countdown and then swings the door open, only for them to stumble over each other’s feet on the way out. Neither of them looks up, speed-walking across the short distance to the main doors. It’s only when Phil reaches out for the handle that Leah speaks, her voice making him jump. 

“Use protection,” is all she says, somehow teasing and bored at the same time. 

They rush out of the door without acknowledging it and collapse onto the closest bench outside, laughing so hard that tears spring to their eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

It isn’t that Dan is ashamed of his flat. It may be small, and often in need of a cleaning, but there’s nothing too horribly damning within those walls that could be detected by another person. 

That’s nowhere near what his brain likes to tell him, though. He’s with Phil in the lift, steadily rising towards the eleventh floor of his building. They haven’t talked much since the Gallery Incident, but the silence doesn’t make him squirm in the way it usually might. It’s not scary, not even with the irrational thoughts that something terrible is lurking in his flat that would drive Phil away. He’s pretty fucking sure that Phil hasn’t been scared off yet, because you don’t typically make out with someone in what’s basically a cupboard if you’re weary about them. 

All of this would be a dream, something from his wildest fantasies, if he could stop thinking about the fucking grease fire. And that’s where his thoughts turn when they get off the lift, muscle memory alone leading his legs to the door plaque reading 1133. '

Andi and their grease fire. Brutally hot flames flickering against the white tiles of their kitchen backsplash, the now charred towel that had been stupidly thrown over top of it to try to smother it. It worked, kind of. And everything was fine at the end of the day, besides their ruined dinner. 

The only lingering issue was Dan’s inability to sleep that night. Or the next one. He felt like he was going batshit crazy, thinking up scenarios that didn’t make sense in this universe or any other one. Ignoring texts and calls and causing Leah to pitch a fit over it and basically baby him at work. 

He opens the front door, unlocked because Andi hadn’t worked today, and gives Phil a quick smile before they walk in. His throat feels dry. 

“Welcome home, homo,” Andi calls out from the lounge. It’s one of their typical greetings, but this time it makes Dan’s cheeks flush; is this really the first impression Phil is going to get? 

“Hi, idiot. I have company.” 

“Me too. And Jada said to get your white ass in here, she’s been waiting to play for an hour!” 

Dan scoffs and turns to Phil, who has the absolute audacity to be chuckling under his breath. He playfully punches his arm as they enter the lounge. 

“Andi, you’re literally a ginger, so hearing the words ‘white ass’ come out of your mouth astonishes me. There’s two people in the room right now that are statistically speaking, whiter than me.” 

Jada laughs and tucks her feet underneath her on the couch, getting more comfortable. She looks at home, which is unsurprising when Dan often hears the two of them yelling about Fortnite until the early morning. He’s just glad to have finally been given her name again. This time he won’t forgot it like an asshole. 

“Speaking of, Dan, who’ve you got today? Andi hasn’t told me about your man friend.” 

Okay, scratch that. He’s going to forget her name and leave forever and never come back. 

“I’m Phil. And if anything, Dan is _my_ man friend.” 

That cheeky bastard – his smug grin shows that he’s aware of the mortification he’s adding on to. 

“This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?” 

The hypothesis is correct. The night seems to go on for ages, but in a good way. The four of them work well together, falling into the perfect banter that’s ten percent encouragement and ninety percent trying to out do each other on witty insults. They play team-based games and finally Dan and Phil have a chance to be on the same side for once. Their dynamic seems to flow a lot more naturally when they’re not on opposing teams, speaking in silent glances and subtle head nods. As it gets later, the two of them end up sitting closer and closer on the sofa, until Dan is pretty much in Phil’s lap. 

It should make him feel at least a tiny bit insecure, but he’s safe with the people around him. He can tell Andi is internally screaming at the sudden romantic twist to Dan’s otherwise boring life, and that Jada doesn’t care in the slightest about the fact that they’re all cuddled up. It’s nice. Phil’s shoulder is a comforting, sturdy presence that the back of his head rests against all evening. When they’re all tired out from gaming, Andi orders takeout and they eat on the floor of the lounge, sharing embarrassing stories about themselves and each other. Dan almost wants to tell them about the Gallery Incident, about the broken ceramic piece, but he realizes that would mean undoubtedly revealing how gone he was for Phil. He’s not one to overshare like that, but the memory alone makes him zone out a little while Andi talks about the time they stumbled down a whole flight of stairs in front of a crowd of people at university. Dan pretends to listen, laughing when appropriate and nodding along - he’s heard this story at least twice before. 

What seems more important to think about at the time being is Phil. Phil’s lips on his throat, kissing and sucking at it with no remorse. Phil’s teeth, pressing and pressing and – and then it was ruined. Dan had to go and ruin the moment with his jumpiness, when it could have gotten so good. It’s not that he believes they would have gone any farther than that while he was at work, but he might have at least gotten a hickey or two for his troubles. (He’d checked: only a stray red mark from the teeth, one that would disappear soon). 

And now Phil is sat a couple feet away from him, listening to Andi’s story with the same kindness that always radiates from him. It spreads to everyone around him, even Dan with all his bitterness. In this moment, that’s kind of hot. He’s sitting with his legs slightly spread, stretched out across the floor all long and wrapped up in tight jeans. It would be easy to crawl in between them, straddle them, get back on track from earlier. 

“But yeah. That’s why I never went to that building again. Switched out of the class and everything,” Andi says. 

Jada makes fun of him for being so socially awkward, and they get in a squabble over whether it was a reasonable decision to drop that class. In the meantime, Phil has caught on to Dan’s staring, and he’s grinning back like he’s in on a secret. 

Dan squints his eyes, trying to decipher why Phil could possibly be so giddy, but the distrusting stare only makes him smile wider. 

‘What?’ Dan mouths, kicking his foot out to nudge Phil’s leg. He leaves his foot there because it’s nice to at least have one point of contact, a subtle touch. Andi and Jada are still talking, albeit now it’s about Game of Thrones, so they’re oblivious to whatever is happening on the other half of the floor space. 

Phil shrugs, but rests his palm against the top of Dan’s foot. ‘Nothing,’ he mouths backs, some of it coming out as a whisper instead. 

Dan raises an eyebrow in what he hopes looks like flirtation, slowly stretching out the arch of his foot so that it slides a little farther up Phil’s leg. He’s not stupid, and he’s not planning on doing anything in front of his friends, but it’s worth it to feel the way Phil squeezes his foot even harder, nails biting slightly into it. He wiggles his toes in response and tries not to laugh at their foolishness. After that, though, he decides to leave it alone for a minute to avoid drawing any attention their way. 

“Who wants drinks? I think all we’ve got is rum or vodka, but Jada is a pro at making them more tolerable,” Andi says. 

They’re looking right at Dan, a hint of knowing shining through their stare that makes him almost embarrassed again. He wants to ignore that feeling; he wants to throw a couple shots back and be brave enough to do everything he wants to do. He looks to Phil first, but he can’t see any indication of how he feels about the idea, so he nudges him with his foot again. 

“Drinks?” 

“I think I’ll skip out, but could you show me to your bathroom?” 

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” 

Dan frowns as he stands, losing all points of contact he’d gained with Phil over the last ten minutes. He wishes he could stop himself from feeling so effected without it. 

“It’s just down the hall,” he says once they reach the dark expanse of it. 

They’re far away enough from Jada and Andi now that he doesn’t freak out when Phil rests a palm on his lower back and urges him to take a few steps more down the hall. The warm touch against the dip of his spine makes his shoulders droop and lose their tension, threatening to make his eyes fall shut. He follows along pliantly until they end up right outside of his bedroom door. 

“I don’t actually need to use your bathroom. I was hoping we could talk?” 

“We can talk. Uh, is everything alright? Are you not having a good time?” 

Phil pushes a tuft of curls off his forehead and this time Dan’s eyes do flutter shut, because he’s a weak man with little self-restraint. How had he gone so long without so much as replying to Phil’s texts, when the simplest acts of affection send heat waves dancing across his skin? No amount of obsession-induced panic should ever stop him from feeling this again. 

Even so, he knows that as soon as his head hits the pillow tonight, he’ll inevitably spiral. 

“I’m having a great time; your friends are great. I’m just worried about you.” 

“You don’t have to worry. I know I made that Facebook post but it’s really noth-“ 

“Dan. It’s more than the post. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but Leah said something, and I’ve noticed a lot of things… I wanted to make sure you’re alright.” 

And that doesn’t sit well with Dan. He hears the genuine worry in Phil’s voice, the softness of it that wants to swallow him up like a big duvet, but it’s muffled by something worse. Interwoven in a sneaky way, taunting the very edges of his eardrums, but still there. Pity. The realization hits him and before he can reply with a snarky comment, he turns to his bedroom and ducks inside. Andi and Jada don’t need to hear his dramatics. Knowing Andi, though, they’re probably already peeking their head around the corner of the hall to see what’s taking so long. 

Oh well. Dan plops down onto his bed and watches Phil hesitantly follow him inside, lingering at the doorway as if unsure. 

“Phil…” Dan can’t help but to say his name, staring up at his towering form too far away. 

He pats the edge of his bed (deciding to ignore the brief images that flash through his mind at the implication of it – now is not the time). Phil crosses the room and sits, the mattress dipping lightly on Dan’s left side. He rests his head on Phil’s shoulder, huffing out a frustrated breath. 

“I didn’t want this to be a thing. You’re not stupid, though, and it’s kind of weird of me to act like I’m a totally normal person doing totally normal people things.” 

“Oh, no, I never thought you were normal. Let’s get that on the table right now,” Phil says, voice laced with laughter. 

“Shut it. You’re one to talk, mister creep shot.” 

“Hey! It’s an art!” 

They’re both giggling as Phil falls back onto the bed, urging Dan down with him by the arm. The sudden view of the ceiling knocks Dan off his rhythm for a second, allowing him to think about where he even wants this conversation to go. He could say everything outright, but that’s not what people want to hear. Any elaborate excuse he tries to lean on will probably dig him into a deep web of lies, one that he doesn’t want to be in. Is it proper etiquette to disclose your mental illnesses to someone before you’ve gotten into their pants, or after? 

Not that that has anything to do with this serious, adult conversation. It has nothing to do with the two of them…on Dan’s bed…lying horizontally…

“What’s on your mind?” Phil asks, quieter now. 

Dan can’t see his face, but he feels a soft stroke of fingertips across his upper arm, inspiring goosebumps to rise in their wake. Phil really knows how to get a man to talk. 

“Too much, all the time. I’m not trying to be all dramatic about this shit but it’s so annoying that I even have to address it. It’s like, wow Dan, you have OCD? Never would have guessed! I’m sure you already knew, it’s not that difficult of a code to crack.” 

The words are acidic, leaving his mouth a bit raw around the edges. Telling someone about this part of his life has never felt as high stakes as it does with Phil; it hadn’t even been that difficult with his younger brother, who hadn’t understood at the time and thought it was some weird game that Dan had made up. The seconds tick by with no proper response, but out of the corner of his eye Dan can see Phil stretching his arms upwards, the faint outline of his chest deflating as he sighs loud enough for it to fill the room up. He wonders if the bottom of his shirt had ridden up as well, but he’d probably internally combust if he craned his neck upwards enough to look. 

“I hadn’t put a term to it in my head, before now, if that’s what you’re asking. Like I said, I had just noticed certain…habits you have. And with the past few days being so, you know,” Phil pauses to gesticulate in a way that means almost nothing to Dan, but he gets it anyways. 

So strange, so lonely. So self-sabotaging, his brain telling him that he’s better off leaving Phil alone. 

“I wanted to make sure you’re really okay.” 

It’s hard to think of anything to say to that. On a scale from ‘I can’t sleep at nights’ to ‘I’d never want to be anywhere but here,’ Dan is hitting both of those points and all of the ones in between, unable to reach out and cling onto just one. Kind of like a ball in a pinball machine, bouncing around with no rhyme or reason, never up to him to decide where he hits next. Some of that could be due to the mild withdrawal symptoms he’s developing from skipping his Citalopram, but he swears it’s always been like this. He decides that maybe if he can’t choose one point to cling onto, he can try to embrace wherever he is – everywhere, nowhere, his chest rising and falling in time with Phil’s. 

Phil, who is genuinely good and continuously right next to him, ready to meet him at those points. 

Phil, who is probably concerned that Dan hasn’t said anything. 

“I’m really okay. I had a weird week because Andi briefly caught our kitchen on fire, and that ticks off pretty much everything that could make my obsessions a billion times worse, but it’s settling now. Sort of.” 

“Obsessions?” 

“Exactly what it sounds like. I get really caught up with things like making sure the stove is off, the doors are locked, basically anything that poses a threat. It’s weird, and irrational, but it’s easier to go through the routine than to freak out about it.” 

Phil hums and turns onto his side, facing Dan. It feels strangely intimate to know he’s being stared at, especially after opening up in a way that he usually wouldn’t without some level of prying. So, he turns on his side as well, holding back a laugh when he sees how Phil’s quiff has been compromised, pieces of hair falling into his face. Staring at his forehead means he gets to avoid the inevitability of awkward eye contact, though. 

“So, when the fire happened…I can see how difficult that would be for you. Does it make you scared? I think that would make me afraid, at least for a while.” 

“Scared shitless, mate. That night I stayed camped in front of the stove for near an hour, just watching it like it would magically burst into flames if I looked away.” 

Maybe that was too much. Dan can sense the shift in Phil’s expression, the downward pull of eyebrows, the soft purse of his lips. Too much. He sounds crazy, even to his own ears, but it’s hard to verbalize that his compulsions are both a horrible driving force and utterly laughable at the same time. There’s no time to think of a witty, self-deprecating joke to make himself seem normal again, because Phil is already speaking over it. 

“That’s awful. How are things now?” 

“Marginally better. When I get weird about something, Andi gives me an earful of reasons to shut up and go to bed.” 

“You could always call me, if you want. If you think it could help.” 

Dan bites back a grin and slings a leg to lie over top of Phil’s, scooting closer to him. Now, it’s hard to deny that the thumping in his chest is from their proximity – it is. Dan finally looks Phil in the eye and that alone makes him want to squirm. 

“Yeah. We could try that.” 

“Tonight?” 

“You’re leaving tonight?” 

He’s aware of how pathetic he sounds, the droop to his voice that could only be read as disappointment, but for a second, he could have been convinced that Phil would stay. It’s already evening; the sun has dipped down low and through the window he can see that the sky is a moody purple, clouds rolling in from the distance. Rain, as usual. Phil cups his face, and to his delight presses a kiss to his already-parted mouth. 

“I have a brat to take care of back home. She’d tear up my curtains if I left her alone.” 

Tuna. For the first time since meeting her, Dan feels a resentment towards the animal, a completely irrational and childish one. 

“I’ll miss you, though,” he pouts, bringing Phil in for another kiss. 

It might be the sappiest he’s ever been – and consequently, the happiest. He wants to be sick at the thought. 

“I can stay for a while longer.” 

“You better. I haven’t gotten to make out with you in _hours_ ,” Dan laments. 

A loud knock on the wall adjacent to his bed makes them both jump, and Dan curses under his breath. 

“Jada made drinks if you two want to break apart for a minute!” 

Phil laughs and tucks his head against Dan’s collarbone, his black hair tickling Dan’s neck. 

“We’re good!” 

“Suit yourselves!” 

For a few minutes they lay in silence, Dan daring to run his hand along Phil’s upper back, then neck, and finally through the hair on the back of his head, clumsy fingers threatening to tremble with how much affection is dying to burst out of him in the form of cheesy pet names and all that other garbage he’s always sworn wasn’t for him. It’s only been a couple of short weeks. Is it even healthy to be this drawn to someone in such a brief time span? 

“Are we being gross?” Phil mumbles, all but backing his head against Dan’s hands, wanting his fingers to push more insistently against his scalp, like he’s genuinely enjoying it. Dan obliges, obviously. 

“Very.” 

“I thought we were going to make out.” 

“We can do whatever you want.” 

He doesn’t catch on to how that sounds until Phil pulls his head back and smirks, eyebrow cocking up. Dan snorts and shoves at him, shifting his body until he’s practically laying on top of him. Their chests are pressed so tight that he can feel Phil's lungs expanding on every inhale. 

“Dork.” 

“You can call me whatever you want, as long as you stay like this.” 

“I hate you. And I planned on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's a day late! life is hectic but im in my last two weeks of this semester, so this is a bit of filler until i can really take the time to focus on the plot. thanks for reading as always!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i updated the tags so check those out b4 reading dudes. other than that... im almost outta school ladies....you know what that means?
> 
> plot! hopefully! really didn't mean to drag this out so much without progressing the story lol but finals are a pain in the ass

Dan’s bedroom is cozy, especially once they decide to lay on his bed properly, even pulling a throw blanket over them for good measure. 

Somehow, the addition of the blanket makes it easier for Phil to invade Dan’s space with less hesitance than before. If he can’t see their bodies pressed flush together, then surely there’s some plausible deniability that he had initiated such a thing. Not that either of them would deny any of this; they’re well past that. 

Phil hasn’t felt this content in a long while. They had an adult conversation that lasted what felt like ages, and he has a better understanding now of what Dan goes through with his OCD. The talk had saddened him in a way, but the odd joke thrown in or the way Dan had treated it so casually and with such familiarity made him realize that it’s just a thing. Not a good thing, but existing, nonetheless. Dan has had years to come to terms with it and the best thing Phil can do to help is accept it and move on. So, he does, letting the evening settle over them with a newfound clarity. 

It would be a calm evening, if not for Andi and Jada in the next room, now drunk and rowdy and occasionally bursting into bouts of laughter that can be heard through the thin walls. Phil has a hand in Dan’s hair, admiring the thick curls that slide smoothly between his fingers as he plays with them. Those curls are close enough to his face that he can even smell the scent of shampoo lingering there; it differs greatly from his own sickly sweet raspberry concoction, with more citrusy, “manly” scents that make Phil want to bottle it up to remember later, when he doesn’t have this closeness anymore. 

Dan’s head is on the most-likely uncomfortable jut of his collarbone, and one of his legs is tucked between Phil’s. He doesn’t remember the last time he had been so physically close to someone, and his body’s memory seems to be even more distant, given the way his fingers tremble as they push tufts of hair away from Dan’s forehead. It’s like he’s sixteen again, unsure and clumsy. 

Cuddling is somehow more intimate than anything they’d done so far. 

He glances out of the window and sees through the half-drawn blinds that the sky has long since faded from purple to a deep blue, casting the room in even darker shadows than earlier. The only light is from an amber lamp across from the bed on a dresser, contrasting the blue tones and making everything feel otherworldly, tucked away from real life. In this world there’s only Dan and him, existing solely in this bed forever. No responsibilities, no worries. He imagines opening the door and being met with a vast nothingness outside of it, black and stunningly still. 

It’s a nice thought, until he’s snapped out of it by a phone vibrating at the foot of the bed. He looks down and it’s Dan’s, so he nudges him lightly. 

“Hey, you’re getting texts.” 

“Wha’? Huh?” 

“Were you asleep?” 

Dan shakes his head, but the following yawn is enough to prove him to be a liar. He blinks his shining eyes harshly before he can keep them open long enough to stare up at Phil, a sleepy smile bringing out his dimples. He looks alarmingly adorable, like Tuna does when she's brought out of a nap. 

“I think you were asleep, mister.” 

“Well, it’s not my fault that you played with my hair. That shit knocks me out.” 

“It’s cute.” 

Dan looks like he wants to argue but gives it up in favor of grabbing his phone. The blue light from floods his face and he gawks at whatever is on the screen, sputtering indignantly. 

“Asshole.” 

“What is it?” 

“Andi is being crude again.” 

“Let me see.” 

Within half a second, Dan has the phone held far away, over the edge of the bed where Phil couldn’t possibly reach if he wanted to. His curiosity is piqued, though, even more so by the flush of red creeping onto Dan’s cheeks. 

“Please, Dan? I wanna know,” he attempts a half-hearted pout, but he’s not nearly as good at it as Dan. 

He doesn’t possess the same affinity for theatrics, and now it’s backfiring in a big way. 

“Tough luck, mate. I’m not letting my flat mate traumatize you. They’re evil. Jada is too.” 

Another route, Phil decides. The mystery of the texts isn’t going to fade from his mind any time soon. 

On an impulse he hooks his leg around Dan and pulls him closer, relishing in the sweet, small gasp it elicits. He gestures for him to move up a bit so that their faces are more aligned, and gives himself the time to really look Dan in the eyes. That alone somehow sets his heart racing, as if the eye contact switches on a secret part of his brain, one that encourages impulsions without question; one that makes him trace the very tips of his fingers up the curve of Dan’s neck. The reaction is instantaneous, a soft ‘oh’ that rings in Phil’s ears as he drags them back down again. 

“That’s okay. I just want to focus on you right now, anyways.” 

“You’re a bastard.” 

“You love it.” 

Phil cups Dan’s jaw and rubs his thumb over his cheek, just wanting to gently explore every part of his face. His attention span isn’t the best, so that quickly becomes his thumb resting on Dan’s lower lip, curiously pressing down. When he draws the digit away, the mildly chapped surface has gone a deeper shade of pink from the pressure. He can feel Dan’s stare in a way that’s more exhilarating than embarrassing, and returns his attention to more innocent places, like the bushy eyebrows and the freckles surrounding his dimple. 

The mysterious text is briefly forgotten now that there’s this. He brings Dan in for a kiss, his hand instead coming to rest on his lower back. Dan doesn’t hold back in the slightest. He insistently licks his way into Phil’s mouth, their tongues meeting in unpracticed but enthusiastic synchrony. After a few deliciously slow-moving minutes of this, Phil slides his hand down further, getting bold in his intentions. His palm slides easily into Dan’s back jeans pocket, and a gentle squeeze there is rewarded with a quiet moan of appreciation. It’s unsurprising that his own breath is growing labored or that his body is urging him to lift his hips to make some sort of contact with Dan’s. There have been so many instances of them getting to this point and stopping; neither of them seem to want to stop now, and that thought makes a shiver shake its way down his spine. 

With his eyes closed, all his senses are zeroed in on Dan. The heat of his breath, the big fingers splayed apart on Phil’s chest to keep balance, the accidental knock of their teeth together that makes them both laugh into the kiss. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever said before, but you’re fucking hot,” Dan says. 

Phil’s eyes snap open and he tries to wrack his brain for a reply that won’t embarrass him, but he’s too distracted by the tingly numbness of his lips and the genuine expression on Dan’s face. No one ever really calls him hot, of all things. He has to look away, and it’s a good thing he does. The thin slice of light pouring in from the hall gives him a realization. 

“Your door is open.” 

“Gee, thanks. You’re great at taking compliments,” Dan scoffs, but it barely masks his grin. 

He crawls off the bed and crosses the room, shutting the door with his foot. 

“Yeah, well. Your mum.” 

“Have I actually broken your brain with my impeccable snogging abilities?” 

Dan looks different than he’s ever been, in Phil’s eyes. Something about him has changed, something just miniscule enough to be hard to describe. It may be a newfound confidence after their talk, or the surety of their affection for each other, but even in the dark room he has a glow about him. 

“Maybe. Wanna break it some more?” 

Phil tries not to grin at his own straightforwardness, patting the spot on the bed that Dan previously occupied. His hand, though, hits something hard. When he looks down it’s right on top of the phone, and the discovery hits him before Dan realizes what’s going on. Phil presses the home button with no further contemplation and the notifications are still there from Andi.

_‘jada bet me a tenner that ur getting dickd down pls respond promptly and dte,ll us’_   
_‘dannn keep it in yout pants im very skint she cant win’_   
_‘have fun tho ;P is he biggg I bet he is lmao’_

By the time Dan snatches the phone away Phil’s already seen all three texts, each one making him laugh harder than the previous. And sure, there’s some minimal shame in Dan’s friends thinking they’ve snuck off to the bedroom to do that, but he finds that he doesn’t mind the accusation. Vodka does that to people. 

“Don’t laugh, dickhead! They’re awful, horrible people.” 

“The fact that you didn’t answer probably isn’t sending the best message.” 

“Shut up. I’m mortified, I can’t believe you read that.” 

Dan is frozen in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest as he refuses to come to the bed. Phil can’t tell if he’s genuinely mad or just pretending to be, so he decides to ease off it. The deep furrow of his brow is enough to point to the former option. 

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to be embarrassed, though. We can pretend I didn’t see it.” 

“You’re only saying that because you wanna touch my ass again.” 

This time, Dan does grin a bit, although his feet stay firmly rooted to the floor. There’s not much use in denying what he’s arguing though; it would be ignorant to say otherwise - especially when Phil is still reeling from before, the heat of want twisting up his stomach into knots. 

“Among other things,” he says cautiously, looking up at the ceiling. 

He hears Dan scoff, and then sees his arms move from the corner of his vision. When he turns to look, Dan’s shirt is being pulled over his head and dropped nonchalantly onto the floor. It’s so unexpected that he can’t find a single word to voice his thoughts, all of them dissolving immediately at the back of his tongue. All he can process is that there’s more muscle than he had envisioned, and an absolute lack of chest hair. Dan’s pretty in a way that makes Phil wish he had his camera. 

“Such a perv,” Dan mutters.

“Says you! You’re half naked!” 

“I’m trying to be enticing!” 

“Get over here and entice me, then.” 

Phil can’t help but to laugh at himself. Who is he, suddenly? This certainly isn’t his normal level of bravado. 

It doesn’t matter anymore, though, as Dan paces back over to the bed and climbs on. Within seconds he’s straddling Phil’s hips, nearly knocking the breath out of him. The weight settling on that part of his body has him wanting to squirm, but that would look too desperate. Instead, he grabs ahold of Dan’s sides, the warm skin burning against his fingertips. 

“You make a good seat,” Dan quips, shuffling around under the guise of getting into a more comfortable position. 

By the glint in his eye, Phil can tell that he knows exactly what the movement is doing, and he bites his tongue to keep from cursing. What a tease, this boy is. 

“I have a feeling you’re going to make Andi lose their bet,” Phil says. 

Now that he sees that Dan is willing to push this a bit further, he’s willing to do the same. So, he tightens his hold on Dan’s waist and rolls his hips up, effectively grinding up against him as payback for the squirming. Dan’s eyelashes flutter shut, and he inhales sharply through his nose, but doesn’t otherwise react. Despite this, Phil can see the outline of him being revealed by his jeans, looking uncomfortable behind the rough fabric. There’s clearly a stronger effect than he’s letting on. 

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Dan asks, pushing his hips down with no excuse this time. 

It feels like so much, yet not nearly enough. The pressure is this weird middle ground that’s more frustrating than satisfying. 

“Just a hunch.” 

“Alright, fucking Sherlock,” Dan laughs. 

He takes hold of the bottom of Phil’s shirt and tugs at it, so Phil raises his arms in permission, allowing it to be removed. The cool air of the room caresses his skin and he fights the urge to cover his chest, opting instead to steadfastly ignore Dan’s stare. 

He only dares to look when gentle hands slip over his shoulders and then down his chest. If the cold hadn’t already caused his nipples to harden, the playful squeeze Dan gives one of them on the way down definitely does the job. Then, Dan climbs off his lap and Phil feels those same hands grope briefly at his thighs before they settle on the waist band of his jeans. 

“Can I?” 

“If yours come off, too.” 

After some mildly infuriating minutes filled with meticulous skinny jean removal, the two of them are mostly unclothed. It’s more intimidating than Phil had imagined it could be, now that he’s here and they’re kissing again. The intimidation isn’t bad enough to make him want to stop, but he does struggle more trying to figure out what to do with his hands. He’s hyper-aware of them, wanting to touch so many places but completely unsure of where is safe. 

They’re both sat upright now, but Dan is still in his lap, long bare legs wrapped around him so that any sudden movement could cause their crotches to make contact. Being in only their briefs makes that so tempting that a few times Phil’s brain short-circuits thinking about it, throwing off the rhythm of the kiss. The baring of skin also drives his hormones up the wall, though, and so it’s not like his brain is doing much work anyways. He’s completely driven by how hot and wet Dan’s mouth is and the tiny whimpers he can draw from it by licking into it or biting Dan’s lip. 

The awkward non-contact of his hands is forgotten eventually, and he finds them tangled into the boy’s hair, grasping at it to pull closer because even this miniscule amount of distance feels like a gaping canyon between them. 

“Pull it.” 

“Hm?” Phil blinks, not comprehending. 

“My hair. I said you could pull it. If you want.” 

And that’s unexpected, but not unappreciated. Phil brings them back into their kiss with newfound vigor, guiding Dan back to him with a handful of curls. He revels in the moan it brings, quickly growing impatient and shifting underneath Dan’s weight. 

“Fuck, touch me,” Dan says, burrowing his head into the crook of Phil’s shoulder once their lips part. 

The damp perspiration of Dan’s forehead sticks to his skin a bit, reminding him of how long they’ve been messing around before finally getting to the most exciting part. The exhilaration of what he’s being asked to do is incomparable to the way he’s felt with any other partner; he hasn’t had this many nerves since being a teenager, awkward and fumbling in the dark of his old childhood bedroom (not to mention Sarah Michelle Gellar plastered on the ceiling, judging him that day – that’s something to cringe about later). 

Phil palms over the bulge in Dan’s underwear, and feels a sharp line of teeth sinking into his shoulder in retaliation. It makes him shudder, but he persists in squeezing at the base of Dan’s cock that somehow hardens more in his hand. 

“Can I take it out?” 

“Please,” Dan whines. 

He does so and makes the best of the inconvenient angle of his arm from the way they’re sitting. This part is a no-brainer, anyone could give a decent hand job really, but he imagines that the dry movement of his fist isn’t portraying the best of his abilities. 

“Got any lube? It’ll be better.” 

“Um, yeah. One sec,” Dan replies, but neither of them make a move to stop what they’re doing. 

Eventually Phil can stop himself and uses his free hand to lift Dan away from his shoulder by the hair again. Dan gasps and blinks back at Phil, going pliantly with the pulling. 

“I shouldn’t have told you about that. You’re gonna use my kinks against me.” 

“Is that a complaint?” 

“No. Shut up. And close your eyes, so I can get the lube.” 

That seems like a reasonable enough request, until Phil thinks about it for more than half a second. He frowns, trying to understand, and peeks one eye open to squint and see what was going on. All he sees from that one squinted eye, though, is the blurry curve of Dan’s ass as he leans over to open a bedside drawer. 

“What am I not supposed to see?” 

At the sound of his voice, Dan slams the drawer shut again, turning back to glare. It’s funnier than it should be, the dramatic pout of his lips. 

“I’m a man with complex needs. Sue me.” 

Oh! -That should have been much more obvious. Phil’s curiosity is even stronger than before, the culmination of dozens of different items he’s seen in adult videos and shady sex shops flashing through his mind. He doesn’t have the chance to ask before a small blue bottle is being shoved in his direction and he decides to forget it for now. Even he knows when to drop a joke, and the burning redness of Dan’s cheeks says that it should undoubtedly be dropped. Poor thing has been through enough embarrassment already today.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, uncapping the lube with shaky fingers. 

Dan’s eyes still have this weird intensity to them, flitting across Phil’s face and body as if he’s trying to decide where to go from here. They’re shining with both amusement and a slice of residual annoyance, but the amusement must win in the end, as the next thing Dan does is snap out of it and pull his briefs off in a hasty motion. 

That’s exactly when the reality hits Phil: he’s here, lubrication in hand, watching the man of his affections strip completely naked in the dark solace of his bedroom. And although it’s not a bad realization, it hadn’t felt so real or significant until now, and it sends his mind racing. Dan is naked, sat impatiently with his legs folded underneath him, waiting to be touched. Waiting for Phil to touch him. Phil wants to say so many things, most of them absurd and sickly sweet and having to do with the word ‘beautiful,’ but words escape him. 

So, he squeezes some of the cold liquid onto his hand and warms it up, before motioning for Dan to come closer. Dan shuffles farther towards the middle of the bed, still on his knees, and perches right in front of Phil. They share a quick kiss that’s somehow both heated and brief, just the right amount of motivation. Phil settles his touch on Dan’s knees and trails upwards to milky thighs, relatively hairless and smooth skin feeling like silk underneath his fingers, which had only partly been wet by the lube. 

His palm, however, is slick and warm as it wraps around Dan’s cock, and it slides in a way that makes Dan let out a choked moan as he grips onto the sheets below him. Neither of them feels burdened with the obligation of talking by this point. Minutes tick by in which the only sounds in the room comes from Phil’s fist moving faster and the breathless sighs and moans that give him the determination to double down on his efforts even when his wrist has gotten sore. 

By the time Dan clasps onto Phil’s forearm, babbling nonsense under his breath about being close, Phil thinks he could cry with just how turned on he is. He brings Dan in and kisses him hard, basking in the final strained whimpers that die out against his lips as he feels Dan’s cock pulsing against his hand and eventually becoming too sensitive to touch. 

“Fuck. Shit. Okay, I’m good. Your turn.” 

Dan insists that he’s good to go despite the way his chest is still heaving, but at this point Phil certainly isn’t in the right state of mind to point that out. He can’t even complain when Dan pushes on his shoulder, getting him to lay down on his back instead. Lying here feels far more vulnerable than sitting up, but his trust in Dan leads him to taking the silent direction with no trouble. 

“Here, wipe your hands, nasty boy,” Dan laughs, grabbing a tissue from the bedside and helping Phil clean the various drying fluids off his palms. 

“You’re the one who did that.” 

“Yeah? And who made me?” 

“Hm. Guess that was me,” Phil grins proudly, wiggling his shoulders to show that it was, in fact, an accomplishment. 

That grin is wiped away when suddenly there’s a hand down his underwear, getting replaced by the subtle drop of his jaw. Finally, some relief! Dan pulls his briefs down only to mid-thigh and gets to work, and the size of his hands has never felt so relevant, so useful, as when they’re doing this. 

“Not gonna last long,” Phil huffs. 

Already he can feel the pressure building, driving him to thrust his hips upwards in short, staccato bursts in time with the movement of Dan’s hand. Dan pulls out some unfair tricks, his thumb circling around the tip with just enough purpose to make Phil’s legs tremble and his thigh muscles go taut. 

All of three minutes pass before he knows he can’t hold on much longer. When he voices this, he sees Dan’s head dip down and feels the sensation of a flat tongue dragging up along his shaft. He groans into his own palms, unable to look down in case he bursts into flames or something. 

It’s too good. 

“Yeah? Wanna come in my mouth?” 

“Fuck,” Phil mumbles, unable to say much more given the fact that Dan’s tongue is back, teasing right below the head. 

There’s no way this isn’t a dream. A very explicit, specific dream. 

“That’s not an answer, Philly.” 

“Yeah, Please.” 

That seems to be enough answer, because the next thing Phil registers is being completely enveloped in a tight, wet, heat; now he has to look down, because if he never got to see this again it would be his biggest regret. Dan’s longer curls in the front are hanging over his face as he takes Phil into his mouth, eyes closed as if this were enjoyable, even relaxing maybe. His jaw has gone slack with the effort of going down even further, closer to the base with every shallow bob of his head. 

It feels close to what heaven must be like, and the end of it crashes into Phil before he can truly admire it enough. 

His climax builds until he can’t help the steady stream of moans from the back of his throat, so he focuses instead on gripping onto Dan’s hair. That seems to be a big thing for him, as he himself makes a small, interested noise around Phil, one that’s soon silenced by a long-awaited release. 

Phil isn’t as loud, so it must come as a bit of a surprise, but Dan quickly swallows it down and raises off Phil with a dopey smile. 

The grin is contagious, lighting up the dim room and making Phil mirror it, though his must be much more spacey and unfocused as his brain is still rebooting like an old computer. 

With the two of them staring each other down, smiling like idiots in the silence and stillness of the aftermath, Phil knows it’s going to be so much harder to go home now.

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! i'll be updating this every friday so stick around :p


End file.
